Fetcher’s Song: The Hidden Series 3

by Lian Tanner

  But when Gwin tried to back Spindle between the shafts, he wouldn’t go. He wouldn’t stand for the harness to be buckled either, but kicked and turned until Gwin threw the straps to the ground in disgust.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she demanded.

  ‘Maybe he’s tired,’ said Hilde.

  Gwin shook her head. ‘He’s faking. We’ll have to go without him.’

  She didn’t mean it, of course. Without Spindle, they couldn’t take the cart, and there were things hidden in that cart that they must not abandon. Besides, Spindle was a member of the family, just as Wretched was, and they couldn’t leave him behind just because he was being stubborn.

  Gwin tried everything to get him into the harness. She begged, she pleaded; she tried to trick him. She grew more and more desperate, but nothing worked. Spindle would not budge.

  And so eventually, with the clouds low and threatening above their heads, they climbed back up the ladder into the cave.

  ‘What do we do now?’ asked Hilde.

  Gwin looked at Papa, hoping he would smile, the way he used to. She wanted him to say that everything would turn out all right, because they were Fetchers, and although they fetched trouble, they also fetched luck. And this was just a tiny setback, and maybe they should sing a song or two until they came up with a brilliant plan for getting Spindle to do as he was told.

  But Papa’s moment of being his old self was gone. So Gwin said the words for him. ‘We should sing.’

  Nat snorted, of course. Hilde said, ‘Sing? Here? Now?’

  ‘Please, Papa,’ said Gwin.

  ‘Gwinith—’

  ‘Please, Papa!’

  Her father sighed and picked up his fiddle. ‘I suppose it won’t hurt.’

  ‘Play Ariel’s song,’ said Gwin.

  ‘Ariel’s song it is.’ And Papa began to play. Three bars in, Nat picked up his clarinetto.

  Ariel’s song had always been Nat’s favourite, which was why Gwin chose it. It told the story of the very first Fetcher, who was seven feet tall and rode a blue ox that could strike lightning from the earth with its hoofs.

  Gwin loved singing it, with her not-very-good voice.

  ‘“No songs?” cried she, and her blue eyes blazed,

  “No tunes for the ear?

  No joy for the heart?

  Then I will sing loudly for all of my days,

  As I travel the land

  With my ox and cart.”’

  They were halfway through the fifth verse when Nat’s clarinetto fell from his lips. ‘Someone’s coming!’

  The song faltered and died. Wretched tried to burrow into Nat’s lap. Hilde whispered, ‘The wild mountain men!’

  Papa’s mouth opened and closed. But then he looked at Gwin and Nat, and with a trace of his old spirit, he said, ‘They will have heard us already. No use being quiet now.’ And he raised his fiddle to his chin once more.

  Gwin could hardly remember what came next, though she’d known this song all her life. She swallowed half a verse and sang the next one backwards, but she didn’t stop, though her heart was thudding with terror.

  ‘They chased her east and they chased her west,

  They placed a price

  On her head and heart.

  A hundred crowns in a wooden chest—’

  Slowly, like a nightmare in the making, the rope ladder began to creak and wobble. A hand slid above the rim of the hole.

  The verses dried up in Gwin’s mouth, and she sat there, trembling. Papa put down his fiddle. Nat looked defiant, though he was trembling too. Hilde pressed herself against the rock wall.

  One by one, three wild mountain men stepped off the rope ladder and into the cave.

  THE ATTACK ON THE CITADEL

  In the weeks leading up to the attack on the Citadel, Dolph had naturally assumed she’d be part of it. Her mama, Orca, had been one of the best hand-to-hand fighters on the Oyster, and Dolph had imagined herself in there with the rest of the crew, helping to break the stranglehold the Devouts had on this poor broken country.

  But so far all she’d done was stand around and watch.

  Some distance from the Citadel’s gate, the ram crew was readying itself for another run. Fifty men and women rubbed their hands together and bent to their ropes, which were woven around a massive tree trunk. With a shout and a heave, they lifted the tree to waist level and broke into a lumbering gallop.

  Immediately, dozens of heads rose above the Citadel walls, and arrows began to rain down on the runners. At the same time, slings whirled and a fusillade of rocks flew in the opposite direction. One of the archers screamed and tumbled backwards. Two of the runners fell in their tracks. Everyone else ducked their heads and kept going.

  Dolph crossed her fingers. ‘This time. Let it be this time.’

  The ram hit the great wooden gates with a thud that echoed across the plateau. The gates shivered – and stood firm.

  Dolph groaned. On her shoulder, Missus Slink said, ‘Patience, lass.’

  ‘I’ve been patient, Missus Slink. But nothing’s happening, and when it does happen, I’m not allowed to take part!’

  Because the fact was, there’d been hand-to-hand fighting at the very beginning. When the combined army of shipfolk and Sunkers had first marched onto the plateau, the Devouts had poured out through the Citadel gates, rank upon rank of brown-robed men, roaring with fury.

  Dolph had been as eager as the rest of the Oyster’s crew to leap into battle, but First Officer Hump had stopped her.

  ‘Not you, Dolph,’ she had shouted, as she ran past. ‘Adm’ral Deeps and I have an agreement. No bratlings.’

  Dolph had just about fallen over with shock. ‘I’m not a bratling! I’m fifteen. I’m Third Officer!’

  ‘Makes no difference,’ cried Hump.

  ‘If the cap’n was here, he’d let me fight,’ Dolph shouted after her.

  But Hump had disappeared into the melee.

  The Oyster’s captain, a mechanical boy who had been terribly damaged by the Devouts, had vanished some weeks ago, carried off to unknown parts by Mister Smoke and a flock of pigeons. For as long as the captain was gone, Hump was senior officer, and so Dolph had done as she was told. She’d stayed on the sidelines, shouting warnings and advice, and swearing whenever she saw an opening where she might’ve made a difference. And just as she’d been about to join in anyway and take the consequences, the Devouts had retreated into their Citadel and barred the gates.

  ‘They’re used to folk cowering in front of ’em,’ Dolph muttered now. ‘They’re used to half-starved villagers and townsfolk worn down by hard work. They can’t stand up against the tribes of the Oyster.’

  ‘So you’ve said, a dozen times at least,’ Missus Slink remarked dryly.

  ‘And I’ll say it a dozen more, Missus Slink. They outnumbered us, but we had ’em on the run in no time at all. They don’t like proper fighters, ’specially not ones as fierce as us. That’s why they don’t dare come out again; they know we’ll beat ’em. Which means we have to get that gate down.’ She scuffed her boots in the mud, and sighed. ‘But it doesn’t look as if it’s going to crack any time soon.’

  Some of the ram crew seemed to be coming to the same conclusion. The moment they were out of arrow range, they dropped the tree trunk and walked away, wiping the sweat from their foreheads.

  Head Cook Krill was one of them. He was a huge man, barrel-chested and bearded, and normally one of the most peaceable folk on the Oyster. But right now his face was dark, and he strode over to where First Officer Hump and Adm’ral Deeps, the leader of the Sunkers, were huddled in conversation by the side of the road.

  ‘This should be interesting,’ muttered Dolph, and she hurried after him.

  Dolph didn’t mind the Sunkers. And she’d been prepared to like Adm’ral Deeps, a tall, hard-browed woman who reminded her just a little of her own murdered mam, Orca.

  But then Deeps had turned her out of the planning meetings on the grounds that bratlings coul
dn’t be trusted – which was because of Sharkey, of course. Dolph understood it, but that didn’t mean she liked it.

  And so, even though she no longer considered herself a bratling, she made sure she was well-hidden behind a rope pile, where she could see without being seen. The last thing she wanted was to be sent back to the ship.

  ‘—losing folk with every run,’ Krill was saying, ‘and we’ve barely raised a splinter from those gates yet. They’re too well-built.’

  ‘Your Chief Engineer has plans to reinforce the head of the ram with iron,’ said Adm’ral Deeps. ‘And a mobile shield to protect the runners. That should make a difference.’

  ‘Our Chief Engineer,’ rumbled Krill, ‘would still be in the brig if I had my way. Just because he’s a good fighter is no reason to forget his crimes.’

  First Officer Hump began to protest, but Krill hadn’t finished. ‘And besides, he’s busy trying to dig tunnels that don’t go anywhere. I’m not holding my breath for shields and reinforcements.’

  Hump fell silent and stared into the distance.

  ‘Tunnels were her idea,’ Dolph whispered to Missus Slink. ‘She didn’t know the Citadel was built on such hard rock.’

  ‘I could’ve told her,’ said Missus Slink with a sniff.

  ‘Don’t reckon she would’ve listened. She’s a good First Officer, or at least she was. But now she’s trying to keep up with Deeps, trying to be all hard and superior, and that sort of thing just doesn’t work with shipfolk.’

  ‘Thing is,’ continued Krill, ‘there’s stuff we’re forgetting with all this talk of tunnels and rams.’

  ‘If you’ve got useful suggestions, your First Officer and I are willing to hear them,’ said Deeps. ‘Speak up, man!’

  Krill glared at her, unimpressed, and pointed to the hovels that lined the road further down the hill. ‘It’s them.’

  The first time Dolph had walked past those squalid little houses, she’d gagged. She was no stranger to strong smells; at the end of a long winter the passages of the Oyster reeked of sour bodies and fish oil. But the stink of the hovels was different. There was something bitter and hopeless about it, something that had made Dolph want to turn around and march straight back the way she had come.

  She was used to it now – hardly noticed it, and hardly noticed the townsfolk either, with their gaunt faces and hollow eyes.

  Deeps looked puzzled. ‘What about ’em? They’re no threat to us. If anything, they’re on our side.’

  ‘So what are we doing for ’em?’ demanded Krill, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

  ‘Tearing down the Citadel and beating the Devouts,’ said Deeps, as if it was obvious.

  ‘And how many of their bratlings are going to starve to death while we’re tippy-tapping at those gates, like a seagull trying to crack open a boulder?’

  Deeps stared at the Head Cook as if she didn’t understand the question. But Hump nodded slowly and said, ‘I see your point, Krill.’

  ‘I can’t stand by and do nothing while there are hungry bratlings about,’ said Krill. ‘I’m going to start feeding ’em. Just wanted to let you know.’

  He turned away, but Deeps stepped in front of him. For all her tallness, she was nowhere near Krill’s great height, but she had such presence and such a habit of command that he stopped and raised a bushy eyebrow.

  Dolph leaned closer, not wanting to miss a single word.

  ‘The Devouts might be vicious, but they’re not fools.’ Deeps glared at the small bones woven into Krill’s beard. ‘Before we arrived, they stripped the countryside, which means there’s hardly any food here except what we brought with us. If we feed those children, our own crews’ll go hungry, and we’ll have to abandon the siege. I will not fall into such a trap. And you will not give our supplies away.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ whispered Dolph. She grinned at Missus Slink. ‘This ain’t going to end well.’

  Krill’s beard bristled, and the bones trembled in the morning light. ‘Our supplies?’ he said, in a dangerously quiet voice. ‘I must be mistaken, Adm’ral. I thought all those dried fish, seaweed biscuits and slabs of portable soup we brought with us were from the Oyster’s stores.’

  Deeps realised she’d made a mistake. ‘Well, yes, I didn’t mean—’

  ‘And who’s in charge of the Oyster’s stores?’ continued Krill. ‘Why, I reckon that’s me, and has been for the last nineteen winters since my da died. So if I want to feed a few bratlings, ain’t no one going to stop me.’

  He turned back to what was left of the ram crew and bellowed, in a voice that was used to making itself heard over all the racket of a busy ship’s galley, ‘Squid! Get some new cooking fires started! Back down the road a-piece, in the town.’

  A young woman broke away from the ram. ‘Rightio, Da!’

  As Krill strode off and the Adm’ral fumed, Dolph headed back to her unofficial watch post. ‘I don’t much like Deeps, Missus Slink, but she’s got a point. I reckon the Devouts’d be pleased as penguins if we ran out of food. They’ve got plenty, from the sound of it, all those storerooms full of—’

  She broke off mid-sentence, thinking about certain events that had happened on the Oyster. And about her mam, First Officer Orca, who’d taught her that the most important part of fighting was strategy.

  Missus Slink eyed her curiously. ‘What is it, lass?’

  Dolph didn’t answer straight away. Instead, she turned and watched the bustling array of shipfolk and Sunkers.

  The ram crew was already rearranging itself. Several hefty Sunkers were brought in to replace those who’d left, and once again everyone spat on their hands and bent to their ropes. Closer to the Citadel, Chief Engineer Albie and his crew were hacking away at the bedrock with pickaxes and shovels.

  ‘It’s a good army,’ said Dolph. ‘Nice and strong, and everyone burning for vengeance. Even Albie’s gotten into the spirit of it, which is an amazing thing. But at this rate it could take weeks. I know you say we have to be patient, Missus Slink—’

  She broke off again and gazed up at the Citadel. Her eyes grew bright. ‘But what if we had a completely different sort of army?’

  THE WILD MOUNTAIN MEN

  The mountain men were even wilder than Gwin had imagined. Their hair was tangled, their faces were filthy and their clothes were a mix of animal skins and bracken. In their fists they carried crude stone blades.

  For the longest moment, no one moved. Then one of the men grunted. There was nothing human about the sound he made, but his companions seemed to understand him. They grunted too, like wild pigs, and rubbed their bellies.

  ‘Dear life, they’re going to eat us,’ squeaked Hilde.

  The three men stared blankly at her and grunted again, their eyes darting back and forth.

  Papa said, quietly, ‘Poor souls, I don’t believe they can talk. What has the world come to?’ And with trembling fingers, he raised his fiddle.

  If anyone had asked, Gwin would have said that she couldn’t remember another word of Ariel’s song. But as the fiddle creaked out the shaky tune, she opened her mouth and sang the final verse.

  ‘I am the spark that will not go out,

  I am the life

  I am the song—’

  The mountain men gaped like children. Gwin couldn’t take her eyes off them. Despite the chill of the morning, she was dripping with sweat, and her voice wobbled. In Papa’s stories, music could tame a wild beast. But would it tame the mountain men?

  ‘Loud is my voice and my heart is stout

  And I’ll travel the land

  My whole life long.’

  The verse ended far too soon. Silence fell over the cave. Gwin felt as if she was about to faint with terror.

  But as she sat there, waiting for the stone knives to do their work, Nat breathed, ‘They’re not starving.’

  That made no sense to Gwin. Of course the mountain men were starving. Just about everyone in the country was starving.

  All the same, her brother had al
ways been able to hear things that no one else could, and when she looked past the beards and the bracken, she realised he was right. Even without the wildness, the men were nothing at all like the villagers she was used to. Their arms were solid with muscle. Their faces weren’t plump, by any means, but neither were they hollow.

  An ugly thought crawled into Gwin’s mind. Perhaps there had been other travellers this way recently. Perhaps the rat had lured them here. Perhaps that was why the wild men were so well fed.

  She felt sick. She was the one who’d been driving when Spindle had turned onto the mountain track. She was the one who’d wanted to sleep in the cave. Now they were all going to die, and it was her fault.

  She cleared her throat, which didn’t get rid of the sick feeling, and began to sing.

  ‘We are F-Fetchers,

  And here we stand—’

  The men’s eyes swivelled towards her. Gwin stopped singing for long enough to say, ‘If you’re going to k-kill us, you should know who we are.’

  Papa whispered, ‘Well said, my love.’ He touched bow to strings. Nat licked his dry lips and raised his clarinetto. Gwin sang,

  ‘Like a smile,

  Like a laugh,

  Like a bird cupped in the hand—’

  If Mama was here, her voice would have stopped the wild mountain men in their tracks; it would have made them weep for joy, no matter how stony-hearted they were.

  Gwin had never made anyone weep for joy. But this was probably the last song she’d ever sing, so she did her best. And when she finished, she closed her eyes and waited for death to come.

  A deep voice growled, ‘Fetchers? Why dint you say so?’

  Gwin’s eyes snapped open and she stared at the three men. They still looked as wild as bears, but underneath that look, something had changed.

  Another voice said, ‘Careful, Hob. Might be trick.’

  They were so hairy that it was hard to tell who was speaking. But the mere fact that they could speak gave Gwin hope.

  Nat said hoarsely, ‘It— It’s not a trick. We’re Fetchers. It’s who we are and what we do.’Which was more words than he’d strung together in two months.