Fenn Halflin and the Seaborn

by Francesca Armour-Chelu

  Think! Fenn told himself. Think! What would Halflin do?

  Halflin wouldn’t panic. He wouldn’t fall victim to his own fear. He’d make a plan. No one could outrun a Malmut; instead Fenn would have to slow them, mislead them. His clothes stank of dead whale but he was also sweating with fear – something Malmuts were bred to detect. He’d have to disguise that. He dived down the muddy bank, smearing his face and arms with treacly black mud as he went, wiping it over his neck where his skin was prickling the most. Then he stuffed his hands into Halflin’s gauntlets to protect them, grabbed the hemlock roots he’d just chucked and sliced their white flesh into slivers. His hands were trembling as he grabbed the rabbit. If it couldn’t be a meal for him, it could be a weapon. Malmuts’ sense of smell would be both their strength and their downfall. Honed to hunt frightened humans above all else, the animals lacked other senses; they wouldn’t even taste the sickly-sweet hemlock. If the Malmuts weren’t suspicious, the Terras wouldn’t be either and it only needed a single Malmut to take the bait for the whole battalion to be slowed: a sick dog would have to be carried by the men.

  Fenn took a deep breath. In his mind’s eye he saw Halflin skin a rabbit so the pelt didn’t get bloodstained. He’d make a shallow cut along the rabbit’s body and the legs, cutting around the feet, leaving fur as if the rabbit were wearing slippers. Then he’d pull off the rest of the fur, like peeling off a too-tight jumper. The rabbit was suddenly so tiny, naked, no longer a rabbit: a meal, covered in a thin, veiny membrane. He must not pierce that membrane. He mustn’t get blood on the rabbit’s fur. He mustn’t leave any sign it had been tampered with.

  Fenn carefully pushed the tip of his knife into the fur and quickly worked his fingers between the fur and membrane, separating the fibrous connection to make a tiny pocket. He pushed some hemlock inside. He made a few more openings all over the rabbit, each no bigger than his little fingernail, and pushed hemlock into each one. Then he laid the rabbit gently on the ground.

  “Bring me luck,” he whispered and ran.

  He ran as he’d never run before, but he could still hear the wild thumping of his heart, the sound of his boots slapping across the waterlogged liverwort, and the high-pitched chattering of Tikki from deep in his jacket pocket. Fenn had no time now to look out for the windmill, it was all he could do to stumble on blindly through the grass, let alone search for anywhere to hide. Besides, this bit of the marsh was flat and barren; apart from the odd stubby clump of sea thrift, there weren’t any trees, nor wrecks. The Malmuts’ barks were getting sharper and more desperate; they sounded in pain in their desperation to get him.

  Just then, Fenn caught the faint smell of coconut in the salty breeze, carried up from the southern coast. He peered into the distance. A streak of yellow glistened against the grey horizon. It was the last outcrop of gorse he’d seen on Halflin’s map – a place to hide. He hurtled towards it, tumbling over his own legs in his scramble. Another bark sounded, even closer. Adrenalin pumped through his heart and suddenly Fenn felt a surge of fresh energy fizzing through his muscles; even though his lungs were burning, he charged over the next few hundred yards. Just as he reached the edge of the thicket, he heard the sound of another Swampscrew, but this one was somewhere ahead.

  He plunged into the dense green gorse; if he could get in deep enough maybe the Malmuts wouldn’t be able to get to him, even if they could smell him. There was nowhere else; he had no choice. As he pushed in, he tried to shield his face with his hands and kept his eyes tight shut.

  According to the map, the thicket was long but narrow, growing from the bottom of the creek down towards the south coast. Fenn wrapped the scarf around his face and tunnelled inside. Long barbs snagged his scalp but he still didn’t make a sound. His life depended on being silent and calm and he forced himself to block out everything. Finally, deep inside the green net of thorns, he stopped stock-still, breathing deep and slow. There was nothing more he could do other than wait and watch, but at least he couldn’t hear the barking any more.

  Fenn curled his back against the gorse, and poked his fingers into his pocket to give Tikki a stroke. To calm himself, he focused on a stonechat delicately picking its way through the branches, wondering why it was there; a bird wouldn’t normally feed at dusk, when owls began hunting. Then, as his eyes got used to the gloom, he noticed there were hundreds of shield bugs swarming over the twigs and the little bird was having a happy time gorging on them. Fenn had only just got his breath under control when he heard the approaching Swampscrew juddering to a halt nearby. He crouched down further, losing himself in the gorse’s green tangles and peered out.

  A Terra jumped down from the cockpit. It was the young captain from the mudflats. The Swampscrew must have looped across the northern side of the marsh before coming back down to the southern side again. The captain opened up a map and scrutinised it blankly before clicking his fingers to the young boy sent to check for quicksands earlier.

  “This it?” he asked him, pointing at the map. The boy nodded. “We camp here!” the captain yelled over the Swampscrew’s engine. The engine was cut and the rest of the Terras jumped down, dropping their sleeping mats a stone’s throw from the bushes where Fenn hid, scuffing away loose stones and branches to make the ground softer.

  “So much for us trapping the kid between us,” Fenn heard one of them grumble, as he unfurled his mat.

  “The dogs will find ’im in the end. Always do,” an older Terra murmured, without bothering to open his eyes as he stretched out on the ground.

  “Don’t you believe it,” the first replied, folding his kit bag under his head for a pillow. “Them new dogs might be fast but they pick up every single smell on this stinkin’ marsh. Mate of mine trains them – said they’re about as useful as a sponge boat—”

  “You two! Stop whinging about nothing and get some kip while you can,” the captain barked. “We stick to the plan. If they don’t turn up, we’ll go find them. Before dawn.”

  Grumbling about the cold, the Terras prepared for another night in the open. Minutes turned into hours until stars pricked the sky, like velvet punched with holes. Fenn could hardly feel his feet any more, they were so icy, and his fingers burned with the cold, but he still didn’t dare move a muscle.

  The young boy with the good eyesight was sent to find kindling to start a fire. He trampled noisily around the edge of the gorse before starting to rip dry branches, perilously close to where Fenn was hiding, startling the stonechats from their feeding. Fenn instantly shut his eyes tight – a glint of light on the wet of his eyes would give him away. For a moment or two, he sensed the torchlight skip across his head and he curled his shoulders inwards to make himself as small as possible, the cape’s grasses dropping over his head. He opened his eyes and realised the boy had spotlighted the grasses hanging off Fenn’s cape.

  “There’s some kind of nest in…” the boy started, trying to poke the light beam through the gorse’s shadows. But before he could probe further, the captain called him back and pointed over the marsh.

  “Leave that and help them!” he ordered.

  Fenn followed the line of the captain’s finger. In the distance he could just make out the lights of a small band of Terras, stumbling over tussocks of grass as they lugged something behind them. It was another ten minutes before the men arrived, and despite the icy marsh breeze, sweat had darkened their collars. The Terras who’d already set up camp nodded suspiciously at them as they hauled a willow sledge into view.

  At the head of the men were the Malmut trainers, half-dragged by three huge Malmuts, straining so hard against their leashes they made themselves choke on their spiked collars. The trainer with two Malmuts in his charge was red-faced and beefy, his collar pinching his lardy neck, making a ruff of fat. The other was wiry with eyes as sharp as vinegar. Both wore brand-new uniforms, their buttons glinting. Chain-mail gauntlets protected their hands from the jaws of their charges, and leather panels protected their legs. As they arrived, the
rest of their troop dropped their backpacks and sagged to the ground.

  These Malmuts were different from the ones on the Shanties, longer-legged, with coarse, almost curly fur that grew denser on their legs. They were steel-muscled, ready for the hunt and better fed than the men, although the fat trainer had been helping himself to some of their rations. They could smell fear like an ordinary dog could smell roast meat. They could smell Fenn. As the fat trainer tied them to an ash tree a good distance from the rest of the men, the animals snapped their frothy jaws in the direction of the gorse.

  “Stupid dogs! Yapping at every single bird,” the trainer snarled, catching sight of the stonechat as it hopped from twig to twig. He quietened them with a smack on their muzzles with his truncheon, before turning back to help the others with a covered bundle on the sledge.

  As they braced themselves to drag the bundle over the last clumps of samphire, the cloth fell away to reveal a fourth Malmut. This one was larger than the others, and stared unseeing at the space in front of its eyes, its chest jerking violently as it tried to pant away its pain. A thread of saliva spooled from its mouth, thick as wet wool. The wiry trainer ran to straighten the sledge, fretting as they lumped his dog across the ground.

  “Careful with Goliath!” he shouted.

  “Boss ain’t goin’ to be happy with you, Kobel,” the fat trainer jeered as he sat down, lolling back on his backpack. Chilstone’s orders were always to dispatch anything holding a battalion back – man or Malmut.

  “Just givin’ ‘im a chance to puke ‘imself right,” Kobel replied irritably. He’d always had a soft spot for Goliath.

  “Tell Chilstone that. Word is he’s on his way here,” the other handler mocked, loosening his collar. The shape of his buttons left a clear imprint in the lardy skin like clay, but seeing the fear flash in Kobel’s eyes, he softened. “Get ‘im out of the wind, if I were you,” he suggested, nodding towards Goliath. “It’s biting tonight.”

  Kobel and two other men lugged Goliath over to the edge of the thicket where Fenn was hiding. Despite being so sick, Goliath instantly picked up Fenn’s scent and began whining, but they ignored him. One of the other men let the stretcher thump clumsily to the ground. At this, Goliath lifted his bulky head and his eyes rolled back in his skull. He barked once at the pain in his guts before lolling back.

  “Watch it!” Kobel shouted. “You know how much he’s worth?”

  The Terra gingerly tucked the cloth around the Malmut’s rigid body and made to stroke the enormous head.

  “He’s like royalty!” he said, admiring its collar. Black studs spelt out GOLIATH in the red leather. But before his hand reached its target, Kobel smacked it away with a stick.

  “Don’t touch ’im!” he shouted, shaking his head at such stupidity. “Fresh out of training that one! He’d take your hand off!”

  The other Terra who’d been helping, laughed. “It’s half dead!” he said, taking a swig of water from his canteen.

  “His jaws ain’t,” Kobel retorted. “It doesn’t matter how sick these boys are. The bite’s just a reflex so make sure you…” His voice trailed to nothing as he realised no one was listening. Instead he got out water bowls for the dogs and stomped over to a shallow stream running around the edge of the gorse to fill a bottle.

  “His jaws are greedy, that’s what,” the fat trainer said. “If he hadn’t eaten that stinking rabbit we’d have been ‘ere two hours ago.” Kobel ignored him as he filled their bowls. Meanwhile, the fat trainer opened up a log book, and started writing in it. Kobel scowled.

  “How about you do their food for—” But he suddenly stopped short and tilted his head to listen out. Over the marsh came a distant whirring.

  “Swampscrew!” the trainer said, dropping his log book in panic and buttoning back his collar.

  “Chilstone!” another Terra shouted.

  The name Chilstone sent the Terras into a frenzy of activity. They re-tied their boots, put their backpacks on and scrambled to standing.

  Hearing the name, Fenn’s heart felt as if it had been knocked out of his chest, leaving him with nothing but a hollow cell for dread to whistle through, like wind in a crypt.

  Chilstone!

  He was terrified, but even as the sweat started to crack the thick mud covering his face, he felt the skin-prickling desire to take revenge. The man that killed his grandfather! If only he had a gun, or even a bow and arrow – something he could use from afar. Hunting rabbits and muntjacs with a bow and arrow had been one of the many skills Halflin had promised to teach Fenn, but it always seemed to be something for the following spring.

  Thought we’d go next year, Halflin would say, just like he’d said the year before. Fenn knew better than to nag him; Halflin always had a reason why that day wasn’t good for teaching Fenn how to hunt.

  Too wet; rabbits’ll be underground, or if it was dry, Make hay while the sun shines; I cou’ clear ten boats terday.

  Or Fenn had to study. Or a Fearzero might come. Or the wind would carry their scent to any animal worth hunting – or bring wolves to their door. The truth was that Halflin never wanted to teach Fenn to kill. Fenn had been the cause of enough suffering on East Marsh already, even if it wasn’t his fault.

  Now Fenn kicked himself for not recovering Lundy’s harpoon the night the wolves attacked them. If Chilstone was meeting his troops at this spot, he could have got a clean shot through the thicket’s thorns. He pulled the rucksack tighter and felt the blade of the billhook press against his back. A billhook could kill a man.

  His eyes stung and his mouth was sawdust-dry, as if hatred had drained the sap from him. He’d never even thought of killing anyone before; but now he’d never wanted anything so badly.

  7

  A Swampscrew appeared, smashing through the far end of the gorse. As it whirred to a halt, muffled commands drifted through the night air. The stonechats flittered silently through the gorse bush and flew off into the night. Fenn strained to see the man he hated through the lattice of twigs, but he could only make out the silhouette of Terra Firma soldiers marching in, trampling the sleeping mats of the other men. These Terras were completely different from any others; they were the elite, well-built and strong, marching in perfect time, stopping at a flawlessly, synchronised point.

  Fenn craned to see if it really was the dreaded Chilstone, but the man in their midst was hidden by the bodyguards’ bulky shoulders and he could only hear snatches of conversation. Whoever it was was cross-examining Kobel, but his voice was soft and calm. A chill ran up Fenn’s spine as he realised it was Chilstone talking.

  “It m–must have been off,” Kobel stammered. “D–didn’t know—”

  “The rabbit was poisoned,” Chilstone quietly interrupted. Kobel’s voice shrivelled to an inaudible whisper. “Your platoon was delayed when you insisted you stop to tend the animal, so you failed to capture the boy. Yes?” Kobel didn’t answer.

  Fenn strained to see as the guards shuffled out of the way so Chilstone could get a better look at Goliath. Having never heard a physical description of Chilstone before, he was surprised by what he saw; he’d expected someone large enough to match the universal dread of him, someone who looked powerful.

  Instead all he saw was a wrinkled old man, so frail and papery he looked like he’d been scraped out, bearing his bent spine’s weight on the steel walking stick that he now used to prod Goliath’s drowsy eyelids open. Chilstone’s skin was the colour of maggots, like the beetle larvae the pigs grubbed out underneath the oaks.

  As Fenn gazed, the fear he had always felt at just hearing Chilstone’s name fluttered away like wood ash. For years Chilstone’s name had made his heart constrict, but he wasn’t afraid of the figure standing before him; Chilstone was a shadow of a man who just happened to have an army behind him. Fenn felt his arms tingle as they surged with an unexpected flood of power to match his hate. He could almost feel how his arm would make the billhook swing, the angle its hook would sink in. He took a long, slow
breath and gently eased the billhook out of the rucksack.

  Chilstone continued to poke Goliath, still limp on the stretcher, bubbles of mucus blowing and bursting from his snout. He worked his way down Goliath’s body, first his heaving chest, then his sweating flank. Chilstone didn’t speak, which unnerved Kobel even more. He started talking quicker, singing Goliath’s praises, saying what a wonderful animal he’d been to train. Hearing his name spoken with kindness, Goliath managed a single weak wag, displaying the enduring canine feature the Terras couldn’t quite breed out of Malmut stock: that dogs love to be loved. Goliath whined, and with great effort, lifted his head, but the hemlock was making his already poor vision even worse and he couldn’t find the vague silhouette he knew to be his master. Instead he turned and sniffed the hard, cold thing pressing against his cheek.

  A bright, white light flashed by Goliath’s head. There was a loud bang. A murder of crows scattered from their nearby roost, with caws and jeers, as Goliath’s head snapped back. The stretcher was suddenly glazed bright red. Chilstone clipped the holster flap back over his smoking gun.

  “The other dogs didn’t eat the rabbit?” he enquired pleasantly. He could have been asking the time. Kobel shook his head dumbly and stared at Goliath’s lifeless body, unable to comprehend what had just happened. The young Terra who’d helped drag the sledge elbowed him out of his grief and into action. They began bundling up the Malmut’s corpse.

  “In there will do,” Chilstone continued, casually nodding towards the shallow stream. Kobel carried Goliath’s body towards the water, dipping his face against his own shoulders to rub the tears from his eyes.

  As Fenn watched the scene unfold, he hadn’t realised his fingers were tightening around the billhook’s handle. In his pocket he found his faithful old penknife and clamped his fingers around that too. He bit his lip. The bodyguards hadn’t yet regrouped and he had a clear sight of Chilstone, ten feet away at most. But now Chilstone was slowly hobbling back to the Swampscrew. It’s now or never, Fenn thought, beginning to push forward as quietly as possible.