Ottilie Colter and the Narroway Hunt

by Rhiannon Williams

  ‘… And if you’re lucky enough to be placed with a Fiory guardian after the trials, Wrangler Morse and I will be two of your permanent instructors.’ Wrangler Voilies clapped his superlatively clean hands together. ‘Your physical training begins tomorrow. We will meet in this chamber at the seventh bell. Lateness will not be tolerated and attendance is mandatory. Do we have any questions?’

  Ottilie had questions, plenty of them, but none that she dared to ask aloud.

  Wrangler Voilies raised his eyebrows and gazed about the room. Not a single person raised their hand. Ottilie wasn’t sure, but she thought he looked a bit pleased.

  ‘Now, just a few more things to discuss, and then you can all go and have a rest – you look as though you need it,’ he said, somewhat coldly.

  ‘Lyre hit them with a jivvie,’ said Wrangler Morse.

  Wrangler Voilies chuckled in a haughty sort of way. ‘Well, that would explain it! Good. Good that you know what awaits you out there.’ He paused. ‘Oh, and also, you will be facing jivvies in your trials.’

  Ottilie’s chest contracted. She wanted to lie down on the ground and close her eyes.

  ‘Nope,’ muttered Branter Scoot, his jaw clicking. ‘No way. Not doing that.’

  ‘You and a flock of ten jivvies,’ Wrangler Voilies went on. ‘You will try to take down as many as you can, and you will receive one point per jivvie felled. But here’s the good part.’ He held up his left hand. Wrapped around his pale squishy thumb was a bronze ring. ‘I’ve got one ring here for each of you. Put it back on your thumb and do not remove it again. Not even when you sleep. These rings could save your life. They will save your life. So long as you wear one, the dredretches can’t hurt you.’

  ‘Unless they get hold of you,’ said Wrangler Morse.

  ‘Of course, yes, like any beast they will tear you to pieces, but so long as you wear your ring they won’t be able to kill you just by lurking nearby – which should be a comfort to you all.’

  Ottilie pictured herself lying on the ground with no legs, and a shadowy creature chomping loudly on something nearby. Feeling nauseated, she shook her head, expelling the thoughts.

  Wrangler Morse stepped forwards, clutching a box in his large, hairy hands. One by one, he returned their rings. Ottilie slid hers on immediately. Just as before, it seemed to resize to fit her thumb perfectly. That same odd sensation flickered up her arm, and finally her stomach settled and her headache numbed to nothing.

  ‘Are they spell’d, do you think?’ muttered Gully.

  ‘I didn’t think spell’d objects were real, not now there are no witches. Mr Parch always said the faulty peddlers are just pretenders,’ whispered Ottilie.

  Wrangler Voilies clapped again. ‘One more thing, lads. You are not the only occupants of Fort Fiory. There are of course the custodians, the interior types going by the name of sculkies. Like you, the girls are here to work. Different work, of course,’ he smirked, ‘in a position more suited to their natural abilities. They cook, clean, launder, garden, and generally serve the Hunt.’

  So it was confirmed. The only other girls at Fort Fiory were servants. That hardly seemed fair. Natural abilities made it sound as if girls were born with the gift to serve and clean – but that didn’t seem right. Freddie didn’t know how to scrub a muddy potato, let alone their hollow – Ottilie and Gully had always split the chores equally. Who had decided only boys should hunt monsters? Why couldn’t a girl? Ottilie decided there wasn’t an answer. Of course a girl could hunt monsters.

  Wrangler Morse cleared his throat. ‘This is your home now, lads. It’s good work we do here. Worthwhile. You don’t know it now, but you’re going to love it here. And the sooner you accept your part in all this, the better for you. Maybe you’re already getting it. And if you’re not, just wait until you see a few more of those monsters beyond that wall out there. They come much bigger and much uglier than jivvies.’

  That was a horrifying thought. Ottilie found it hard to believe that there could be something worse than a jivvie.

  ‘When you spot a full-grown scorver, a fire-breathing oxie, or – what’s the biggest, do you think, Tudor?’

  ‘Barrogaul,’ said Wrangler Voilies, the corners of his mouth quirking upwards.

  ‘That’d be the one,’ Wrangler Morse frowned. ‘Trust me, you spot yourself a barrogaul and you’ll get it. You’ll get why we’re here. We hunt dredretches, monsters, evil in solid form. These things need to be contained for the good of everyone in the Usklers and beyond.’

  Right then and there, Ottilie decided that for the rest of her life she would do whatever it took to avoid coming into contact with a barrogaul.

  ‘You were chosen because you’ve got the right stuff in you,’ said Wrangler Voilies. ‘You’re the only men for the job, and before long you’ll start to take pride in that. You just wait and see.’

  ‘Nope,’ muttered Branter Scoot.

  Ottilie caught his eye and nodded in agreement. She would not wait and see. She and Gully were leaving.

  12

  Training

  Gully just couldn’t come around to the idea of breakfast. Ottilie, on the other hand, embraced it wholeheartedly. The next morning, she gladly took care of his tray along with her own. It was better food than they had ever had access to. The bread at Fiory wasn’t stale, and the beans weren’t dried. For dinner, they were given root-vegetable stew, which was far more appetising than the common Swamp Hollows delicacy of mushroom broth with soggy river weeds.

  Brushing the breakfast crumbs off her blanket, Ottilie turned to Gully. Pillow at his feet, Gully was lying on his bed staring at the ceiling. Soft morning light filtered in through the window, forming a barrier of floating dust between their corner and the rest of the room.

  ‘Here’s what I’m thinking,’ said Branter Scoot. His voice was low and his eyes were shifty. ‘I’m thinking we get out of here.’

  Wary of eavesdroppers, Ottilie scanned the room. Some of the boys, like Gully, were lying on their beds, others were gathered in groups, and some even seemed cheerful. No-one was paying them any attention.

  ‘Run away?’ said Preddy, his eyeglasses magnifying his eyes to the size of apricots.

  ‘Before they get too attached to the idea of us being here!’

  ‘I think they’re already attached to that idea, Scoot,’ said Ottilie. ‘They dragged some boys all the way from the Claw.’ The Claw was the east-most tip of the Usklers.

  ‘But maybe it’s worth all that,’ said Preddy. ‘Maybe they’re right and this is really important work.’

  ‘You can’t be serious!’ said Branter Scoot, who was quickly becoming simply Scoot. ‘Preddy, they kidnapped us! You can’t go round snatching people and telling them to hunt monsters for you!’

  ‘But it’s for the king …’

  ‘First, I haven’t seen the king anywhere. Have you? And second, the king’s never done anything much for me. In fact, no-one in the Usklers cares two brakkernuts for a kid from the Wikric slum tunnels,’ said Scoot. ‘What about you Colters? How was life in the Swamp Hollows? You feel like you owe the king your loyal service?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Gully, pushing himself up to sit with his arms wrapped around his knees.

  Ottilie had become particularly observant of the way the boys around her moved. Some were stooping and clumsy with their limbs, others stood square and appeared to stretch and spread themselves, as if to take up as much space as possible. Preddy had impeccable posture, and seemed to move most similarly to the sculkies, whereas Scoot was the opposite, hunched and unpredictable with sharp, exaggerated movements.

  Ottilie had grown so paranoid that she had begun to question her every gesture and posture, often altering her stance several times to find something that seemed naturally male – although she was beginning to suspect there was no such thing. The fact was, she needed to get out before anyone noticed she was different.

  ‘We need to go home,’ said Ottilie, careful to keep her voice qu
iet.

  Gully nodded.

  ‘I can’t believe they took the both of you,’ said Scoot. ‘You’re the only set of brothers here, far as I know.’

  Ottilie’s lungs seemed to deflate.

  ‘Must run in the family,’ said Gully quickly, catching her eye. ‘Whatever it is they choose us for.’

  ‘True,’ said Preddy, readjusting his eyeglasses. ‘It is surprising that there aren’t more siblings here, if you think about it.’

  ‘Maybe there are in different tiers,’ said Ottilie. ‘Gully and I shouldn’t have been taken at the same time. He’s younger than everyone …’

  ‘Why is that?’ said Scoot. ‘Why’d they take you so young?’

  ‘They must just take some people early if they think they’re ready,’ said Preddy. ‘The earlier the better, by the sounds of it – if you can’t hurt a dredretch after you turn eighteen.’

  ‘Well, I’m not ready. I’m going home,’ said Gully.

  ‘Hear, hear,’ muttered Scoot, scowling at the door. ‘I’d go right now if I could figure out how to do it. But there are people everywhere, watching … even guarding the boundary walls. I saw them when we came in.’

  ‘We should get down to the springs and clean up,’ said Preddy, changing the subject, ‘or we’ll be late for our first training session.’

  Gully looked sideways at Ottilie. She did her best to keep her expression blank. It was at this moment that she was in the worst danger. Preddy and Scoot headed for the door. Gully got up to follow.

  ‘You coming, Ott?’ said Scoot.

  The muscles in her shoulders and neck bunched up. ‘No, I’m going to stay and finish this.’ She pointed to Gully’s breakfast tray. ‘I went late last night.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Couldn’t sleep.’

  It was true; Ottilie had sneaked out when all the boys were asleep, to scrub herself properly clean in the bath. How she was going to keep that up without arousing suspicion she did not know. It seemed that only the fledges used those particular springs. She’d heard they would get their own bedchamber after the trials, so perhaps the other tiers had private washrooms. She supposed it didn’t matter. She wouldn’t be sticking around long enough to find out.

  ‘You sure eat a lot,’ said Scoot.

  ‘Just not used to having so much food thrown at me,’ she said, forcing a smile. ‘There wasn’t much to go around back home.’

  ‘Fair point,’ said Scoot, eying the tray greedily. ‘Toss us that apple, Ott.’

  With a sharp breath of relief, Ottilie threw the shiny red apple across the room. Scoot caught it in his left hand and tore a chunk out of it. ‘Fanks,’ he said, lumps of apple flying out of his mouth.

  Just after they left, two sculkies came in to clear the breakfast trays. Ottilie immediately recognised the dark-haired girl with the mysterious gaze. She was accompanied by a fair-haired friend that Ottilie hadn’t noticed before. Neither girl paid Ottilie any attention until they had collected all the trays and were halfway out the door. Later, Ottilie would decide that she had imagined it, or at least exaggerated it in her mind – but as they passed through the doorway, she was sure the dark-haired sculkie whispered something about her, because a second later, her companion turned. She could have been looking through the window, but Ottilie was certain she was looking at her. A cat’s smile stretched across the sculkie’s face. Unnerved, Ottilie turned away.

  The bells tolled seven and there was no sign of wranglers Voilies or Morse. Instead, Leo and Ned were standing by the window in the high-ceilinged chamber. Leo was gesturing towards a dark shape in the distant sky. Ned nodded and muttered something with a smile.

  The group stood in silence for a moment, unsure of what was going on.

  ‘Morning all,’ said Leo Darby, without looking at them. ‘We’re to take you down.’

  They were led down several flights of stairs and out into the morning sun. They moved through archways of grey stone, across a clover-strewn field, past an orchard of trees bursting with speckled dustplums, and finally met the waiting wranglers by a vast pond near the boundary wall. A harmony of croaks beat out between the reeds and a lone red-feathered goose eyed them malevolently from across the glassy water.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Wrangler Voilies. ‘So. Well. Good, you’ve met my boys here properly – Leonard Darby and Edwin Skovey. You are extremely fortunate to have these two working with this squad. They’re both from Fiory, and select elite of course. And Leo has been the reigning champion of his tier for the two years he’s been with us.’

  Wrangler Voilies patted Leo on the back, a closemouthed smile contorting his face. Leo looked so imperiously smug that Ottilie would not have been surprised if he ordered them all to kneel at his feet.

  ‘To business,’ said Voilies. ‘The boys are going to take you for a run. Two laps around the inside of the boundary walls – you will hear this referred to as the inner shepherd perimeter. And please note, fledglings, that the lower grounds are out of bounds until after your trials. Now off you trot, and no walking!’

  Ottilie had always liked to run, but she had never gone running in her life. It was not easy. Thankfully she was not the only one who struggled. Perched high on a hill, the Fiory grounds were not flat, and it was not an easy track to run. Here and there they passed groups of off-duty huntsmen, some of them heckling as the puffing fledglings struggled past.

  The squad curled around a huge, somewhat overgrown vegetable patch tucked behind an apple grove, and a buzzing apiary with rows of bee gums and krippygrass hives. They circled another crystalline pond, beating with frog song, crossed a muddy creek, and stumbled through a stretch of wet wilderness with tightening chests and limbs growing heavier by the second.

  Just when Ottilie thought her lungs were going to give out, she realised they’d lost someone. ‘Where’s Preddy?’ she wheezed.

  Scoot jerked his head backwards, half-grinning, half-grimacing in pain. Preddy was right at the back. His face was bright red everywhere but around his mouth, which was ringed with white. He looked like any breath could be his last. The truth was, Preddy looked exactly how Ottilie felt. There was a strange blood-like taste leaking up from her throat, and were she not caught in a pack she knew she would already be walking.

  They finished their run at a bouncy march.

  ‘Disappointing,’ sniffed Wrangler Voilies. ‘I’d expect better from a squad of sculkies.’ He rested one neatly manicured hand on his rather flabby stomach. ‘Fitness will always be a priority,’ he said, breathing heavily as they trekked up a hill to a set of training yards. ‘For your fledgling trials, reflex and accuracy will be our main focus during your training. After that, we will introduce you to a wider range of weaponry, and our three hunting orders: foot, mounted, and flight.’

  ‘Flight?’ whispered Ottilie, with an unexpected smile.

  Beside her, Gully’s eyes were stretched wide.

  ‘But for now, we will be focusing on your trials. You’ll need to use a bow, and a bit of skill with a cutlass, clubs and a slingshot could also be helpful.’

  Ottilie felt a tingle of excitement. She and Gully had been play-fighting for years, pretending to defend the Swamp Hollows from devilish Laklanders and dodging invisible jets of flame from imaginary firedrakes. Now they were actually going to get to learn these skills.

  They followed the wranglers into the training yards, gathering in one of three archery ranges. Above all, Ottilie had always wanted to learn how to shoot an arrow. They had seen she-oak longbows slung across the backs of fur-clad hunters around Market Town, and she and Gully had even tried to build their own from sticks and string.

  When Wrangler Morse placed a short, curved bow in her hand, Ottilie almost squeaked with excitement. She glanced over at Gully and saw that he too, despite his determination to go home, was delighted by the prospect of learning to use a real bow.

  But as it turned out, archery was not at all easy.

  ‘Always remember, bow arm – elbo
w out. Don’t let me see them pointing to the ground!’ called Wrangler Voilies.

  ‘Keep that shoulder down, Ott,’ said Wrangler Morse, checking her form. ‘And don’t grip. Keep it supported in the pad of your hand. If you grip, you might twist the bow on release.’

  ‘Right,’ muttered Ottilie, trying hard to take it all in.

  ‘Use the muscles across your back! Do not pull with the arm,’ said Wrangler Voilies. ‘And draw!’

  Ottilie took a breath and tried her best to keep her arm in line with the arrow.

  ‘Loose!’

  Looking beyond the bow to the very centre of the target, Ottilie released her breath and the arrow at the same time. She was sure she had met her mark. Fists clenched and eyes blazing, she watched the arrow shave the edge of the wooden target and bounce off the wall beyond, falling to the ground like a useless twig.

  Her face fell. She looked around. Almost everyone had missed their targets. Some had managed to hit the outer edges, but only one boy made it anywhere near the centre.

  ‘Well done, Mr Preddy! Fine form,’ said Wrangler Voilies.

  ‘Shot before, have you?’ said Wrangler Morse.

  ‘Yes, a bit,’ said Preddy.

  ‘We don’t get a lot with previous training,’ said Wrangler Morse. ‘You done any riding or swordplay?’

  ‘I was never trained with a blade, but I’ve been riding since I could walk,’ said Preddy.

  ‘Good, good, excellent,’ said Wrangler Voilies.

  Ottilie noticed scowls on the faces of the other boys. Preddy was one of the very few in their group to have come from decidedly privileged circumstances. They weren’t all from such lowly dwellings as the Wikric slum tunnels like Scoot, or the Swamp Hollows like her and Gully, but there were very few upper-crust sorts.

  ‘All right. I would say not too shabby … but I can’t. For the most part, shabby, shabby, shabby,’ said Wrangler Voilies. ‘I see timidity! I see scattered focus! I see weak limbs and empty heads! Was there a mix-up? Did they send us girls by mistake?’ He clicked his tongue and shook his head.