Fenn Halflin and the Seaborn

by Francesca Armour-Chelu

  Sensing Fenn’s tension, Tikki started squirming in his pocket; the racket of the crows circling overhead and the smell of fresh blood had also spooked him. He began a low chattering – the sign he wanted to come out. There was nothing Fenn could do to stop him; he knew from experience that if he tried to hold him back, Tikki would only protest more loudly until he was released. Fenn softly undid the button on the pocket. Immediately Tikki scurried up to the branch nearest Fenn’s shoulder, twitching his nose, like he could smell danger. He glanced in the direction Fenn was looking, his fur bristling as he too saw Chilstone for the first time. He stared at Fenn questioningly then scratched at his sleeve as if he wanted to leave, the way he did at the Shanties sometimes, when he’d had enough of rat-catching and wanted to be warm back at the fort.

  “No,” Fenn mouthed, “stay!”

  But Tikki didn’t want to. He looked directly at Chilstone again, his fur bushing up as though he’d seen a snake – a mongoose’s mortal enemy. Then he crouched down, swaying his haunches, like a cat about to pounce on a mouse. Fenn tried to grab his tail, but just missed. Tikki slipped through his fingertips and scampered through the thicket, flying straight for Chilstone, his claws extended. He landed with a raging screech right on the back of Chilstone’s neck.

  Before the guards had a chance to react, Tikki ripped his claws in Chilstone’s scalp, pulling out a clump of his grey, wispy hair. Chilstone screamed in agony and tripped over his cane onto the ground. The Malmuts barked in a frenzy and leapt forwards, only to have their heads snapped back by their leashes.

  “Get it off!” Chilstone yelped.

  Chilstone’s bodyguards lunged at Tikki, but he had already leapt down and darted between their legs, snapping at their ankles. It was all happening so quickly that Fenn couldn’t think straight. Chilstone was lifted to his feet by two of his men who tried to hurry him back to the safety of the Swampscrew. Fenn knew he’d lost his chance; he’d never get close to him now. Meanwhile the trainers tried to release the three barking Malmuts, but their leads were tangled as they fought each other to kill Tikki.

  “Run, Tikki!” Fenn whispered.

  But Tikki had no intention of running away. Every time he was close to capture, he scampered into the bushes before darting out elsewhere to attack again. Chilstone’s guards rushed after him, kicking out and cursing, gradually drawn further and further along the strip of gorse. Fenn suddenly realised Tikki’s game: he was trying to draw the Terras away from Fenn. He was trying to save him.

  By now, Chilstone had regained his composure, and stood very still throughout the commotion. As Tikki spun by his feet, he darted out his cane, swift as a snake’s tongue, and knocked Tikki off balance. For a split second Tikki was on his back, but that was all Chilstone needed. He spiked the cane down on Tikki’s chest and pinioned him, then lifted him by the tail. He dangled Tikki in the air to inspect him.

  “A mongoose. Must have come in on a Seaborn boat,” he murmured. “A prime example of exactly why we must protect our Isles,” he continued, holding Tikki in front of the Terras so they could see clearly. Tikki started making a low growling sound. Fenn watched in horror.

  “Immigrant creatures such as this,” Chilstone continued, “bring diseases. Who knows what other viruses have colonised our shores as the Seaborn race spreads?” He yanked Tikki’s tail so hard that the mongoose jolted in the air.

  The coiled spring of fury in Fenn’s chest snapped, like a watch being overwound. He crashed out of the thicket in a blind rage. A huge thorn twanged back and ripped right across his eye socket, immediately blinding him on one side. He ran screaming at Chilstone, the billhook raised above his head, its long, sloped blade flashing in the lamplight. Blood streamed down his mud-blackened face and the guttural shriek he made was unhuman. Even the most seasoned Terras backed away, remembering ancient tales of marsh demons.

  At the same moment, Tikki let out a squeal so unnatural, so high-pitched that it seemed to crack open the night. The crows that had only just resettled skittered up again and heckled the night sky angrily. Tikki arched his back, scrabbled the air as if swimming, then twisted his body so he was facing away from Chilstone. Apart from biting, this particular breed of mongoose only had one other defence mechanism, and Tikki used it now: an arc of fluid shot from Tikki’s rear. Fenn rushed at Chilstone.

  It was nothing like Fenn had imagined. There was nothing heroic about it. He flailed the billhook blindly and ineffectually, each stroke falling short and hitting thin air. Chilstone wasn’t as close as he’d thought, and Fenn suddenly felt weak, the billhook heavier than the logs he used to lug in from the woodshed. He realised he wasn’t yelling a terrifying war-cry at all and the childish sobbing he could hear was coming from himself.

  Seeing the strange mud-covered creature, like a devil from a swamp, Chilstone shrieked and dropped Tikki. He lost his footing again and fell backwards, clawing at the air for something to hold on to. But his hand only found the sharp edge of Halflin’s old billhook as Fenn blindly lashed out.

  Two fingers from Chilstone’s left hand flew through the air.

  The billhook had been Halflin’s most valued tool: it cut the reeds for thatch, kindling for fire and butchered meat. To get a new cleaver would have cost him dearly, so he cherished this one, scraping the steel daily on a whetstone so the blade was razor-sharp and it cut clean. So clean, in fact, that Chilstone had a moment’s grace when he didn’t even feel it, when he didn’t realise what Fenn had done to him. It wasn’t pain but instinct that made him clutch the stubs of his fingers, his mouth wide open with shock – although he didn’t know what he was shocked at. Looking around for clues, he saw his lopped-off fingers rolling to a standstill on the mossy ground and let out a pitiful wail.

  Until Fenn heard Chilstone’s anguished howl, he hadn’t realised what he’d done either. He blinked out the tears blurring his sight and saw red seeping out of Chilstone’s closed fist. The Terras stared at him, stunned and strangely static. Time seemed to have frozen. Then Tikki ran up Fenn’s leg and down deep into his pocket to hide, squeaking in terror.

  Fenn looked first at the blade of the billhook, almost confused about why he was holding it, then at his own hand speckled with Chilstone’s blood. Without warning he buckled. Like Halflin, Fenn didn’t have the heart to hurt a living thing – not even the monster now trembling before him.

  Chilstone staggered back and knocked a lantern over, plunging them all into pitch black as its oil sprayed across the thicket. At that moment there was a sudden thundering of hooves as a dozen wild horses stormed in, herded through the Terras camp by riders cracking whips. One of the horses knocked another lantern and the thicket immediately caught alight. As the flames leapt up, their flickering light showed the terrified Chilstone cowering against the Swampscrew’s side still trying to staunch his wounds.

  He looked up from cradling his hand and saw Fenn, just a few paces away, the billhook limp in his bloodied hand. For a split second, they stared at each other in shocked silence amidst the chaos; both oblivious to the mayhem around them. Fenn came to his senses first and raised the billhook again, gritting his teeth. Chilstone reached for his gun with his good hand, but just as he pulled it from the holster, a horse galloped between them. The rider reached down and grabbed Fenn by the scruff of the neck, then hauled him up into the saddle. By the time the horse had passed, Fenn had vanished from Chilstone’s sight.

  8

  As they plunged through the burning thicket, the horse’s hooves kicked up fiery ash, blinding Fenn. The horse jumped so high that for a few moments Fenn felt as if they were flying, before it landed with a jolt and staggered a few paces as it regained its balance. Fenn heard a metal clatter behind them and realised they had just leapt over the Swampscrew and that the precious billhook must have slipped from his grip and landed on its deck. He tried to work out what was happening by the sounds around him; furious shouts rang out and gunshot split the night air in their wake. Two men fell, lifeless, and their rider
less horses ran wildly, catching up with the horses ahead.

  As they galloped through the gorse bushes Fenn caught the sound of a Swampscrew somewhere behind them. At this, Fenn’s rider whipped his horse even harder, swerving left and right, trying to avoid the bullets whistling past. All at once, Fenn felt an elbow press hard between his shoulders and the rider thrust him down towards the horse’s neck to keep Fenn out of range.

  They seemed to have lost them but still rode on hard, out onto the murky black swamps, kicking the horses until spit frothed around their mouths and they snorted with exhaustion, their eyes rolling white. There were no proper paths but the horses sensed the way, cantering without hesitation into the black. These horses of the marsh were valued not just for their speed but for their agility in the treacherous bogs.

  “Tadey!” Fenn’s rider yelled to one of the others at the rear. “Were we dragged?” Fenn carefully rubbed the ash from his eyes on the horse’s mane and turned his head to look. A boy, a few years older than him, had pulled the reins short and his horse had come to a jittery halt. He cocked his head, listening intently for a few seconds before nodding.

  “Swampscrew. We’ll split! Gerran, you take the kid! We’ll head them off!” he shouted.

  Tadey and the others corralled the riderless horses before disappearing into the night. Gerran yanked his horse to a rearing halt and swerved down into a shallow gulley, where they were hidden by a sea of swaying bulrushes growing along the edges. The horse was tiring and dropped from a gallop to a canter, her hooves slushing the mud.

  They rode for another half an hour through the sleet, until a chaffing wind shivered the clouds from the moon and the marsh was bathed in a silvery light. A gleam of water shone like a ribbon of silk in the distance, edged by a long sweep of hunched willows. Gerran stood in his stirrups as they approached.

  “Scully!” he called.

  A whistle came from ahead and Gerran trotted through the leafy curtains and out onto the bank of an enormous river. There, a guard waited, leaning on a rifle. He wore the same patchwork clothing as Gerran and his hair was braided in the same way as the crew of the Panimengro, the Gleaner Fenn had first escaped on. Fenn realised these were Marsh Sargassons, the tribe Chilstone robbed of their children in his hunt for Fenn. They were tall, handsome men, with dark eyes set deep in pallid faces, like their skin had never seen the sun.

  Beyond the guard, Fenn could see a narrow causeway, built from tree trunks crossed together and overlaid with willow branches, which led into a mist lying over the river. Gerran’s horse danced on her hooves with exhaustion and Scully grabbed her reins while Gerran slackened his grip on Fenn, letting him slip like a sack onto the bank. Fenn crawled away and slumped against a clump of rushes, then gently lifted Tikki from his pocket. But Tikki was too frightened to settle and nipped Fenn’s fingers, squirming to get free.

  “Who’s the kid?” Scully asked, standing over Fenn, the rifle cocked. He put his hand out to see what it was Fenn was nursing, but Fenn shouldered him away, bunching his body protectively over Tikki, still trying to soothe him despite his bites.

  “Let him be!” Gerran instructed sharply, turning the horse into the river until she was up to her hocks. “He’s had a fright.” Gerran leant forward, gently patting the horse’s neck while she drank, steam smoking from her silver flanks. “We found him clankin’ from the Terras,” he said, nodding his head in Fenn’s direction.

  “At the Punchlock?”

  Gerran shook his head. “Couldn’t get close to it. Swarming with Terras.”

  “Think they caught someone?” Scully murmured thoughtfully. Watching how Fenn was crouching, white and shaky in the treacly mud, he relaxed and rested the gun back on his shoulder.

  “Nah. Wouldn’t still be on the swamp if they had,” Gerran said. “I had no squint of Giddock for two moons. Maybe he knows more.” Gerran nudged his heel in the horse’s ribs and she veered back to the shore. “We heard a shot so went to squint. Found this one in the thick of it.”

  Fenn watched woozily as Gerran jumped down, rifling through the rucksack. It didn’t take him long to find the map.

  “This is old,” he murmured, unfolding it in the moonlight. “Whoever drew it hasn’t trod the marsh a few summers.”

  As he spoke, Halflin’s words drifted back into Fenn’s befuddled head. I’ve never left the Sunkyard, not fer one night, not in thirteen year. Halflin must have drawn the map from his mind’s eye, from what he remembered of the marsh before he found Fenn; before he was the Punchlock’s prisoner.

  “Half of this is underwater now,” Gerran finished, slapping his knuckles against the paper dismissively. “But the map shows the Sargasson stronghold. Who are you? A spy?” he demanded suspiciously. Fenn curled away from the interrogation. He was too tired to fight any more. He just wanted to be left alone.

  “I asked you a question!” Gerran shouted, pulling him up so his feet tiptoed the mud. As his fist made a knot of Fenn’s shirt he caught sight of a glint of gold. The famous Demari key, the symbol of Seaborn Resistance. He tore it off in fury.

  “Gold?” Scully murmured, elbowing in, reaching out to touch it as it swung glinting in the moonlight. Gerran narrowed his eyes as he studied Fenn.

  “Moray will want to see this. Keep an eye out for the others. I’m taking him in before the tide turns.”

  Gerran stuffed the necklace in his pocket before jumping back on the horse. He reached down and hauled Fenn up in front of him again, then pulled the reins short and steered the horse onto the causeway across the river. Fenn quickly pushed Tikki deep down under his Guernsey where he’d be safe and warm, and held on tightly to the saddle’s pommel. The tide was rising quickly and the horse faltered, her hooves twitchy in the wet. Gerran patted her neck and trusting him, she trotted out obediently into the surf sloshing over the timbers. As they rode out further and further, snow began to drift down and for a while Fenn could see nothing as they entered the deep banks of mist swirling up from the water. But after ten minutes the mists began to thin and a gigantic blackened tangle emerged in the distance.

  On the far banks of the river, leafless branches snarled up like a giant bramble. It was the forest he’d seen on the map: thousands of brine-dead trees, half-submerged and petrified, forming an island in the middle of a huge river that split one side of the marsh from the other. As they drew nearer, Fenn realised the black, bony trees were spiking out from huge dunes of rubbish; the debris left after the Great Rising, when the trees had acted like a colander through which the huge tsunamis streamed, first inland, then out again, leaving behind smashed-up boats, pylons, buoys, wooden crates, doors and twisted cars.

  As they reached the forest, a small wooden landing stage came into view, the frost feathering its deck glinting in the moonlight. Gerran trotted towards the two Sargasson guards, who stood silently, a bark of frost coating their eel-skin hoods. He jumped down and yanked Fenn roughly off the horse.

  “Where’s my brother?” Gerran asked.

  “Watchtower,” the second guard replied. “Two Swampscrews spotted tonight: less than a mile from the borders.”

  Gerran shoved Fenn up a ladder leading to a platform made out of a flattened car bonnet. From the platform hung a wide bridge made of stripped bark, fixed across two plaited rush ropes. It wove through the rotting tangles of dead trees before disappearing into the thick fog that rolled up from the decaying forest. Weeks of hunting for gulls up in the Shanties’ girders meant that Fenn had no fear of heights, but even he hesitated. His left eye was split and he could hardly see out of it. He gently lifted Tikki out again, but Tikki instantly jumped down onto the bridge, scampering a few paces before stopping and checking Fenn was following.

  Gerran let out a short, joyless chuckle, like it was the first time he’d tried laughter. “Your little friend has more guts than you!” he murmured.

  The bridge was at least sixty feet above the water level, where broken branches thrust up like javelins. Fenn tried to walk very carefully
, following the path Tikki took, but each time he stopped on the slimy wood, Gerran gave him a shove. He kept his eyes on the ground the whole time, just managing to dodge out of the way of the lanterns hanging on the branches overhead. Tikki suddenly doubled back and scampered onto the safety of Fenn’s shoulder and Fenn felt a short club thump in his chest. He looked up.

  Two young boys barred his way, guarding a huge gate made from scraps of metal riveted together – the only way through a high wall of tree trunks, sharpened like pencils. Each boy was also armed with a short-handled, curved sword. Gerran gave them a curt nod and they heaved open the grinding gates, sprinkling them with flakes of rust. Fenn passed into the Sargasson settlement.

  He gaped in astonishment. He had thought the whole forest was dead, as Halflin had always told him, but he’d been wrong. Inside its salt-scorched perimeters, a new forest was springing up, at least half as tall as the forest that had been planted years before. In the centre of it all was the Sargassons’ fortress; a thick clump of oaks and crack willows grouped densely around a huge sequoia tree, surrounded by another tall ring of wooden spikes. From this, bridges fanned out through the treetops like an enormous spider’s web – including the one he was on – with other bridges suspended from them in turn, weaving into the lower branches of the trees or connected with spiralling willow staircases. Hundreds of lights glimmered through the rich green canopy of ferns growing in the damp crowns of the trees. Vines dripped down between the branches, dusted white with the fresh snowfall.

  As Fenn walked towards the fortress, he passed dozens of egg-shaped huts made of woven reeds and plastered with mud and reeds from the marsh. They were clustered around the trees like barnacles on a rock. In larger trees, crooked tree houses, built of driftwood, tipped at dangerous angles in the branches, bearing balconies and wonky verandas. He even spotted trees with boats still locked in their branches, rammed there by the force of the waves in the Rising.