Fenn Halflin and the Seaborn

by Francesca Armour-Chelu

  “We the cooks – everyone knows we do the dolin’ out!” Magpie yelled, brandishing her ladle at anyone who looked like they might disagree. The two women grabbed either side of the crate and hitched it up between them. They began to lug it back up to the kitchens, budging people out of the way with their pointy elbows that seemed specially sharpened for the purpose.

  But Magpie hadn’t counted on Lazlo. He stepped out of the shadows, blocking her way, his greasy lackey lurking by his side; an equally mean-looking man with a scar running from the corner of his mouth to one ear, giving him a permanent lopsided smile.

  “Let me help you with that,” Lazlo said, looking down at her with an unpleasant grin. Suddenly her ladle was in his hand. “Guess this makes me cook now.” He smirked. “So I’ll be doing the doling out.” Immediately the rest of his cronies formed a circle around the crate like a wake of vultures. Lazlo calmly began to jemmy the lid off with the ladle handle.

  “How ‘bout this time, you leave somethin’ for the littl’ ‘uns?” Magpie asked, nervously standing her ground. Fenn instantly moved forwards, but Humber grabbed his sleeve, pulling him back, silently shaking his head. Lazlo was not to be crossed.

  Without even bothering to turn around, Lazlo lashed out with his free fist and Magpie went sprawling to the floor, blood spurting from her mouth. Lazlo tossed the ladle at her and it clattered in the hushed silence.

  Before anyone could stop him, Fenn lurched forwards to help Magpie. Gulper, Fathom and Humber were only a few paces behind when Fenn reached her, helping her to her feet. Magpie quickly scrunched a fist of cloth against her bleeding lips. She was trembling with shock, but forced a smile.

  “Din’t hurt none!” she said stubbornly, her eyes glittering with pain.

  “She’s just a cook,” Lazlo smirked, as he passed a huge chunk of rice bread to one of his cronies. “Needs to learn to keep her mouth shut.”

  Pure and absolute hatred drenched Fenn. He felt anger flash electrically in his temples, as if his brain was actually overheating. Without thinking, he grabbed the ladle and swung it hard, striking Lazlo clean on the side of the head with one precise blow. Lazlo, the smile still playing on his lips, toppled unconscious to the floor. His cronies backed away, eyeing Fenn uncertainly. Everyone in the hall was silent until a lone man spoke up.

  “Idiot!” he yelled. “Now we’ll get rations docked completely. We can’t take more punishments!” He sounded like he was about to cry.

  “The Terras will punish us, whatever we do!” Fenn shouted furiously, glaring at the man who’d spoken out.

  He searched the sea of faces for his friends, but the angry heat inside his head had made it hard to focus. An old woman, hobbling on a stick, pushed through the crowd to the front. She’d been one of those huddled and grumbling by the fire the first night Fenn arrived. She pointed a bony finger accusingly at him.

  “You only arrived two days ago and you’re already making trouble,” she scowled, scooping the remains of her ragged shawl around her bony shoulders.

  Just at that moment Amber clambered down a ladder holding Tikki in her arms, coming to find out what the commotion was about. The old woman cast an eye over her, then turned back to Fenn. “If you’re so worried about us starving, your pet otter would feed a few,” she said, cackling.

  Lazlo began to groan on the floor and his men stooped down to help him to his feet. Fenn looked around at the angry faces gaping at him and stepped up onto the crate.

  “Get down, Fenn,” Magpie hissed, tugging at his sleeve, but he ignored her.

  “We should be trying to help each other, not fight each other!” he shouted over the crowd.

  “Now he’s telling us what to do!” the old woman said bitterly. “Who d’you think you are anyway?”

  Trust your instinct, Halflin always said.

  “I’m Fenn Demari,” he said. “My parents were Tomas and Maya Demari.” He pulled the key out from where it was hidden under his shirt, stretching the chain out so everyone could see. It flickered luminously in the dreary gloom, somehow seeming to glitter brighter than it ever had before.

  A stunned silence engulfed the crowd, followed by a confusion of chatter and questions as people jostled forwards to get a better look at the pale, skinny boy standing before them, holding the famous Demari key.

  “And so what if you are? The Resistance is dead!” growled one of Lazlo’s men, full of bravado. He realised there’d be a vacancy if Lazlo died, and he planned to fill it.

  Fenn took a deep breath. “The Resistance isn’t dead! Because we’re the Resistance! I am, you are,” he pointed to the man who’d spoken out in the beginning. “She is,” he pointed to Amber, helping Magpie stop the bleeding. “I’d been looking for the Resistance for months, before I realised it isn’t someone else: it’s in us already!” He banged his hand on his chest. “The Terra Firma want to destroy us, and they’re getting us to do it for them. When the Wall’s finally built, what do you think Chilstone’s going to do with us all?”

  There were murmurs of agreement from the crowd as Fenn’s words sank in.

  “The Terras say who lives, who dies, who eats, who starves, who gets to live behind the Wall! But our lives aren’t something to be rationed out!”

  There were a few cheers from the Sargassons and Fenn’s friends.

  “So if you want to live,” Fenn continued, “listen to me! We must take back the Hellhulks and free everyone. Seaborns built the Walls; they have a right to be safe behind them!”

  A cheer suddenly rippled through the whole crowd.

  “The Sargassons are fighting the Terras on the marsh right now and the rest of us must stand with them! It doesn’t matter if you’re Sargasson, Venetian, Scotian … we are all Seaborn! Now is the time to unite; now is the time to fight back!”

  Cheers reverberated around the hall, echoing off the iron bulkheads. But the old woman continued to glower at Fenn, rapping her stick repeatedly on a metal pipe, until the cheers eventually died out.

  “Big words from a little boy,” she wheezed. “But how exactly are we going to get over that giant Wall?”

  Before Fenn could answer, Humber spoke up. “We’re not goin’ over. We’re goin’ under. My crew have dug a tunnel from the mine. Took us two months’ sweat, but now we’re through.”

  As word of this swept around the hall the crowd pressed in excitedly, eager to learn more. Fenn tucked the necklace back and jumped down from the crate, pushing through the crowds towards the drawbridge.

  “All that’s between us and freedom is this,” he shouted, banging his fist on the door. “So let’s break it down!”

  A brawny Scotian, with muscles on his shoulders like he had a sack of boulders under his skin, lumbered over to a thick oak bench and wrenched it from its footings. He lifted it as though it were a twig and hoisted it onto his shoulder and the crowds parted to let him through, patting his muscles as he passed. A band of Sargassons gathered alongside him, like a roost of crows, to help hold it in position ready to use as a battering ram against the drawbridge. Groups of men were pulling other benches off their housings and dragging them to the door too.

  Until now the Terras had always made them work in teams according to their race: Sargassons and Scotians, Caspians and Venetians. The Terras encouraged their apparent differences, pitting one group against another; always the broken against the downtrodden while the powerful reigned the same. But now they worked as one, together. Years of dragging the carts back from the mines had given them wiry muscles. The Scotian braced himself at the front and nodded, purple veins popping across his neck as he heaved his mountainous shoulder against the bench. Fenn and Fathom ran to join him and the battering crew. On the Scotian’s count, they swung the benches back and punched them against the drawbridge. The huge metal slab that made the drawbridge shuddered and groaned; rivets bounced out and fell clanging onto the iron floor. Rust showered through the air, turning it a murky red. The oil in the hall lamps was running out and they flickered d
own to tiny matchhead flames, warping the men’s shadows on the iron bulkheads so that they looked like giants.

  “Again!” the crowd roared.

  The men threw their anger once more behind the oak benches; again they were showered with the fine red dust. Time and time again, they smashed the benches against the door until there was a sudden grinding split as one of the bolts outside bent and twisted away from the frame.

  “Now this side!” Fenn shouted.

  Immediately the teams of men hefted the benches over to the side where the second bolt still held true. Again they swung the benches together as one. At last the bolt twisted free, but somehow the vast iron door still stood strong.

  “The centre!” Fenn ordered.

  The men, rust-stained sweat tinting their shirts like blood, now swung the benches straight into the heart of the door. It only needed one true thrust for the drawbridge to finally burst open. It crashed down onto the bridge and a huge cheer rose up from the Seaborns. As the bridge was thrust down in the water two arcs of foaming water, like angels’ wings, sprayed out from either side. But as the wings splashed down, the cheers died in the throats of the prisoners.

  Facing them on the other side of the drawbridge, a unit of Terras was already waiting. They were wearing the full defensive gear that Fenn remembered from the Sweep on the Shanties; masks obscured their faces to protect them from disease and gauntlets covered their hands. The dog handlers were at the front, pulling back with all their strength on six savage Malmuts, which already strained to get at the prisoners. At the head of the unit stood the young captain from the Swampscrew. He hadn’t counted on facing a full-scale riot without enough men to deal with it, but he held his nerve and ordered the Malmuts to be released.

  The Malmuts hurled themselves over the jagged edges of the ripped drawbridge, snarling and growling, skidding on the sea-lashed floor. They were followed by the Terras, who drew their truncheons mid-leap, striking any prisoners as they landed. They didn’t care who they hit; young children and old people ran away and tried to hide.

  It was pandemonium. There was little light in the great hall, other than a faint shaft of dull moonlight where the drawbridge had been breached. As the Terras charged, brandishing truncheons, the Malmuts snapped their jaws blindly, confused and excited; they could smell fear everywhere.

  Terrified mothers, clasping their crying children, scattered in fear, finding shelter in stairwells, trying to bundle their families to safety. Anyone fit enough tried climbing up the network of pipes above the bulkheads. But others, inspired by Fenn’s speech and bravery, grabbed anything they could use as a weapon. They tore the treads from the ladders to throw, and the teams that had rammed the door used the same benches to push oncoming Terras back over the drawbridge, where they fell screaming into the water. A mob of sixty strong men charged out onto the pontoon bridge and took the fight to the remaining Terras.

  As Terras and Seaborns battled, Fenn found himself being pushed further away from the drawbridge, back into the Brimstone. A few yards from him, the huge Scotian tore a chunk of piping away from the Hellhulk’s side, and swung it like a cudgel, knocking one of the Malmuts off balance so that it skidded across the drawbridge, ramming three Terras off the side. Sargassons wrenched railings off walkways and used them like swords against any Terras trying to get beyond the first deck.

  Fenn grabbed a stump of wood and swung it towards the head of a Malmut about to pounce at Amber, who was now backed against one of the ship’s steel ribs, holding Comfort tight behind her and trying to keep a hold of Tikki, who was scrabbling from under her arm to get back to the safety of Fenn. But just as Fenn raised it to strike, the Malmut, confused by the ever-increasing smell of fear, sunk its teeth into the thigh of a Terra running past. The animals only knew who their masters were by the pain they inflicted, but when free, they bit and clawed at will. Tikki at last managed to break free of Amber’s grip and scurried up to the pipes in order to see where Fenn was.

  Realising he’d made a terrible mistake by letting the Malmuts off their leashes, the captain yelled to the handlers to recall them. Fenn quickly tried to push through the crowd to Amber and Comfort, but the Scotian suddenly collided with him in the gloom, stumbling away from two pursuing Terras. One of them lunged at the Scotian, but he was knocked off balance by another Malmut charging by, frothing at the mouth. The Terra’s truncheon glanced off the Scotian’s shoulder, but caught Fenn on his damaged eye. He crashed to the floor – Mattie’s stitches were undone and the wound popped open again.

  As Fenn gasped in pain, the Malmut skidded to a halt and turned back in the direction of his scent. This one seemed more alert; it stood, rooted to the spot, haunches quivering with excitement. It recognised more than fear this time – it remembered Fenn’s scent from the hunt on the marsh. The air soured as the animal panted, its pupils roaming blanky in its opaque eyeballs. As it turned to leap, Fathom threw himself between Fenn and the brute. At the same moment, the Scotian swung the pipe against the Malmut’s huge head. The Malmut fell on the floor yelping and the two Terras turned and fled, pursued by the Scotian, roaring bloodthirstily.

  “Fenn!” Fathom cried, as he leant over, shielding Fenn. Hearing the name through the crowd, the Terra captain turned to face them.

  “I’m OK!” Fenn struggled to stand.

  “That’s him!” the captain shouted, hurtling towards them, but the Scotian had returned and barred his way.

  At the same moment, hearing Fenn’s voice in the darkness, Tikki bounded off the pipes and onto the captain’s head, using it as a springboard for his next leap to where Fathom was pushing Fenn to the safety of the ship’s wall. “They mustn’t get you,” Fathom hissed in his ear as he tore the precious necklace off Fenn’s neck. Before Fenn could react, Humber and Magpie had grabbed him and yanked him away towards a side door.

  Fenn struggled to get free, but Humber’s grip was like an iron manacle around his arms. As they heaved him through the door to the lower decks, Fenn caught a last glimpse of the captain bearing down on Fathom before he was dragged into a pitch-black passageway. He was vaguely aware of a scurrying and squeaking behind them, and guessed Tikki must be following. The noise of the fighting dimmed as Fenn was hurried down stairwells he hadn’t even known existed, deeper and deeper into the bowels of the ship. Rats scuttled ahead of their frantic steps like they were guiding their escape, until eventually they reached a passage lit by a single candle, ending with an iron door. They thrust it open and bundled Fenn inside.

  “Hide him!” Humber shouted into the darkness. “Terras are coming!”

  Then the door was slammed shut in Fenn’s face.

  17

  Fenn turned immediately to try and get back out, but the door had been bolted shut from the outside. He felt something scratch his leg and looked down. It was Tikki, pawing at him to be picked up. Fenn leant down, speckling the floor with blood from his eye. He pressed the cuff of his sleeve against the wound, his head swimming, and gently put Tikki around his neck, letting him nuzzle against him and rubbing his cheek into his warm side. Tikki’s fur always felt so soft; Fenn was flooded with gratitude that he hadn’t been hurt.

  Beyond him hung a piece of sacking. He pulled it back and found himself in a fire-lit, windowless room. Fenn knew he was in the ship’s brig – the jail that had once been for Seaborns before the entire ship was made a prison. The air tasted of wet iron and along the sides were narrow, open cells each containing a simple wooden bed. A pot-bellied stove crackled at the end and condensation dripped from huge iron joists that criss-crossed the ceiling. Next to the stove was a bench glinting with bottles, and hanging over it was a battery of implements like carpenter’s tools: saws, knives and clamps. Fenn realised the brig was now a sick-house for the ill or dying.

  A gloomy passageway ran down one side of the stove and Fenn hurried towards it as fast as his dizziness would allow; his wounded eye was fattening from the Terra’s blow and felt searingly hot. As he approached, he heard he
avy, limping steps coming towards him, accompanied by the sound of a stick thumping on the ground. He remembered Humber saying he had a friend working here – the man who’d been hurt in a rockfall.

  “Hello?” Fenn called. “I need to get out of here!”

  The limping steps hesitated.

  “Who’s tha’?” replied a muffled voice, shaky and frightened. Fenn couldn’t believe his ears.

  Out of the shadows limped a ghost. Fenn’s breath stuck in his chest and he couldn’t breathe.

  The ghost hobbled nearer, leaning perilously on a stick, the other hand outstretched. His lame leg dragged behind him, scuffing through the sawdust. Fenn backed away, choking on a sob. He had to be hallucinating. He dug his nails into his palm to break the spell. Hearing the voice in his head had been hard enough; he couldn’t stand to dream that he was seeing him too.

  “Is that mi’ boy?” Halflin whispered.

  He was as thin as a scratch – so much thinner. Older – so much older. But alive! He’d never looked so alive. Fenn took a huge gasp of air, suddenly propelled out of the dark grief he’d been drowning in ever since he heard his grandad was dead. Then he let out a howl, almost like the one he had as a baby when Halflin first saved him from the water. Halflin had reached him now and grabbed him, pulling him against his own thumping heart, cradling his head against his shoulder. As Fenn flooded with tears, he sagged against Halflin, trying so hard to speak but each time being ambushed by wracking sobs. Finally he stuttered out, “Lundy… said…” But he couldn’t finish his sentence. Halflin slowly helped Fenn into a chair by the fire, where he slumped down. “She … she said you’d died!”