‘So none of the orders usually have more champions?’
‘Nah. It’s usually a mix of the three. Here, look, this is what I wanted to show you.’ Leo pointed to dark patch of forest over to the east.
Ottilie squinted in the sunlight. They headed in closer, circling the blackened trees.
‘Was there a fire?’ said Ottilie.
‘No. Here, look closer.’ Leo nudged Maestro down towards the drooping inky branches.
He was right. They weren’t burned, or dead, they were … it was difficult to say what they were. It was as if someone had poured hot tar over a massive patch of forest. Like the page in the book she’d been studying, everything was blackened. The tree branches sagged as if weighed down by something invisible, and although the branches still had leaves, they were sparse and black, or sickly green.
‘What … ?’
‘We call it the Withering Wood.’
‘I’d call it melting,’ said Ottilie. ‘It looks like everything’s melting.’ She sniffed the air. ‘Smells like it too.’ The air around the trees was oddly warm and smelled unnatural, a similar smell to the dredretch flesh that had become so familiar, like rotting brambleberries mixed with burnt bread and old boots. ‘Why is it like that?’
‘We don’t know, but it’s spreading. Even since I’ve been here I think it’s got bigger. It’s obviously something to do with the dredretches. They’re poisonous, and they’re driving all the native animals out and killing the land.’
‘What can we do about it?’
‘Hunt dredretches,’ said Leo simply.
Something moved down below. A rustle and snap was followed by an ear-splitting squawk that made Ottilie’s head spin. The squawker shot up through the oozing, blackened trees, spiralling into the sky and unfurling a pair of dark red, scaly wings.
It looked like an owl that had been burned in a fire. Its empty eye sockets dribbled dark fluid and smoke seemed to seep from beneath the red scales between its sparse black feathers. It opened its wide beak and squawked again. Ottilie had to clench her fist to keep from crying out, so painful was the sound.
Leo shook his head as if to clear it, grabbed his bow, and shot an arrow directly into the dredretch’s gaping mouth.
‘Squail,’ he said, as it plummeted back down into the Withering Wood. ‘They’re slow, easy targets, but don’t ever let them screech for longer than a minute. It can knock you out cold.’
Maestro soared west and they continued on their patrol route, but Ottilie looked back, gazing at the poisoned patch of forest below. What would happen if it spread all the way through the Narroway? Was this the future of the Usklers – this festering, deadened land?
Captain Lyre said the threat was contained, that the dredretches had never made it past the border. But what if that withering sickness spread? If it took over the Narroway, surely the Hunt would have to leave, and then what? Would they keep backing away? Keep making new borders further and further east? Longwood would be the first to go, along with the Swamp Hollows. Mr Parch, Old Moss, Freddie, Bill, Peter Mervintasker, even Gurt … what would become of them all?
Ottilie remembered Christopher Crow. She saw his body resting on bundles of pale moongrass, and the soft feathers Captain Lyre had scattered across the funeral pyre. She couldn’t think about leaving. Leo had said it. There was one thing she could do to help.
She could hunt dredretches.
23
The Red Canyon
The last days of spring sailed by. Every dawn crept backwards in time, waking the early birds earlier still, and before she could believe it, nearly a month of summer had already passed and Ottilie turned thirteen. She couldn’t be sure which day was the anniversary of her birth, but Old Moss and Mr Parch had always celebrated her birthday in the first month of summer.
Gully remembered. Ottilie had come back from a morning hunt on the twenty-second day of summer to find an enormous bright yellow flower that smelled of muddy metal sitting in a jar by her window. She didn’t know where he had managed to find a sunnytree in the Narroway. The sight of it made her feel younger and older at the same time.
Skip noticed it the next day as she collected Ottilie’s bed linen for washing. ‘You’re probably going to have to hide that,’ she said.
It was raining heavily and, much to his irritation, Leo’s hunt had been cancelled, leaving Ottilie with the morning off.
‘Why?’ said Ottilie.
‘Boys don’t usually get given flowers. Unless they’re dying. Or someone wants to marry them.’
‘I think that’s stupid. Everyone likes flowers.’
Skip shrugged. ‘You can say I gave it to you if you want. I can pretend I want to marry you.’ She fluttered her eyelashes and flashed a crooked grin.
Ottilie snorted.
‘What are you doing in here?’ said a voice from the doorway.
It was Maeve Moth. She stood with her arms crossed and an utterly indecipherable expression on her face.
‘Getting the linens, Moth. What are you doing in here?’ said Skip.
‘Getting the linens,’ said Maeve, her voice icy.
‘I don’t think it really needs the both of us.’
‘I thought I was doing the odds and you were doing the evens. Last I checked, eleven is an odd. This is room eleven?’ She looked at Ottilie.
‘Uh. Yes, this is room eleven,’ said Ottilie.
‘I was doing the evens, but I got them all, so I thought I’d help you catch up,’ said Skip cheerily.
‘You’ve been in here a long time,’ said Maeve. Her eyes fell on the jar by the window. ‘Nice flower.’
Ottilie flinched inwardly.
‘I better get back to work.’ With that, Maeve Moth slipped from the room.
‘Witch,’ muttered Skip.
‘What?’ said Ottilie, alarmed.
‘Maeve Moth. Complete witch.’ She glanced at Ottilie and laughed. ‘Not a real witch, Ottilie! She’s just rotten, can’t stand her. She doesn’t like me much either, as I’m sure you could tell.’
‘She looks at me strangely … and too much,’ said Ottilie.
Skip shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t worry about it. That’s just what she’s like – staring around with those witchy eyes, thinking evil thoughts. She’s cracked.’
That was a relief. At least Skip had experienced it too.
‘She knows Leonard,’ said Ottilie. She had taken to calling Leo Leonard behind his back. It was something she had picked up from Ned, who called him Leonard whenever he was being particularly insufferable.
‘She wishes she knew Leo Darby. Everyone gets silly about the champions – even the wranglers go weak at the knees,’ said Skip, rolling her eyes. Ottilie knew what she was talking about. Wrangler Voilies looked like he was fighting the urge to bow whenever Leo entered a room.
‘How’s it going with him anyway?’ said Skip.
Ottilie shrugged. ‘He teaches me a lot. And he’s keeping me high in the rankings. I’m fourth at the moment. Gully’s first, Preddy’s third, and a boy from Arko’s second. He doesn’t think I’ve noticed, but I can tell he wants me to win so he can brag that it was all down to him.’ Ottilie didn’t want to admit that she was also a little disappointed by her ranking.
‘How many hunts have you been on now?’
‘I’ve lost count. I actually like patrolling better because we have more time to practise flying. Maestro’s used to me now, but he still doesn’t listen to me. Leo has to help almost every time. I don’t understand what I’m doing differently to him.’
‘I’ve never ridden a wingerslink, but I’ve been on a horse,’ Skip said, ‘and they know when you’re inexperienced. They sense it.’
‘When have you been on a horse?’ Although she’d never been there, Ottilie couldn’t imagine there were a great many horses wandering the Wikric slum tunnels.
‘The horse mistress here took a liking to me and gave me some lessons. She lets me ride a bit on my days off. It’s not technically allowed but
the stablehands keep their mouths shut, and most of them are girls so it doesn’t look too out of the ordinary if I’m seen riding around.’
‘There’s a horse mistress?’
Skip nodded. ‘Ramona Ritgrivvian.’
‘But that’s not a custodian position, is it? Wouldn’t the horse mistress be a wrangler?’
‘Ramona’s the only female wrangler at Fiory.’ Skip scowled and shook her head. ‘Ramona’s magic with the horses, you’ll see. They’ll be teaching you to ride soon.’
Ottilie flopped down on the bare bed. The fledges were to start their group riding and flying lessons in autumn. For now, they were focusing on learning to resist the dredretch sickness. This skill was called warding, and they had begun their lessons a few weeks ago.
‘I should go before Moth gets more suspicious.’ Skip rolled her eyes. ‘We need to cut your hair soon. It’s looking too long again. Whenever it gets long enough to curl, you start looking like a girl.’
‘Gully’s hair curls.’
‘But Gully is a boy.’
‘So am I, as far as they know.’
Ottilie knew things were going to get more difficult in the coming years, but for the moment no-one was questioning her. The thought of what might happen if she was found out was too distressing to bear, so Ottilie shoved it away, pretending it wasn’t real.
Even so, sometimes she wondered about her friends. Right now she was treated the same as her peers, but how would it be if they knew the truth? Would Scoot treat her differently? Would Leo? Leo treated everyone like they were beneath him – how different could it be? In the end she knew it didn’t matter. If the Hunt found out, she would be punished and sent away – or worse.
The Fiory fledges spent three separate hours a week doing nothing at all. Wrangler Morse was their warding instructor, and the aim of the exercise was to render their bronze rings redundant. They sat cross-legged on the floor, closed their eyes, and tried to muster their thoughts.
It was not easy. Ottilie was terrible at it on an average day, but even more so with rain hammering against the window shutters. There was a candle on the ground in front of her. She was supposed to be focusing on the light through her eyelids, but her mind kept slipping away. She was thinking about her last hunt. Leo had taken her down into the Red Canyon caves to hunt a wyler. He had tracked it from the hills behind Fort Fiory, showing Ottilie the trail of faint prints in the mud.
Wylers were horned, fox-like dredretches that were smart and notoriously difficult to track. Lucky for Leo and Ottilie it had been raining a lot of late, and mud caught the footprints of light-treading beasts in a way that dry dirt didn’t.
Wylers were one of the most dangerous dredretches in the Narroway because they were so tricky. They fit into spaces that they shouldn’t have fit, and despite their fiery coats they often slipped about unseen. They were particularly vicious attackers that could sense the huntsmen’s protective rings. If a wyler got up close enough, one of the first things it would do was tear off a young huntsman’s thumb to remove the ring. This wasn’t a problem for the more experienced huntsmen, who didn’t need them or wear them, but for a fledge, or a second-tier, losing the ring in a fight with a wyler spelled certain death.
Ottilie and Leo had moved to the ground to focus on land-based dredretches. They had been tracking an oxie, following a trail of scorch marks and scratches along the Uskler pines, when Leo pointed out a faint print in the mud. It didn’t look like a print to Ottilie, just wet textured soil, but Leo was certain it was a wyler.
It took them an hour to track it down, following its trail all the way to the Red Canyon. They called it so because the river at the base of the deep ravine appeared red from above. Close up, though, the river rocks were splashed with mosses and waterweed coloured blue, red, amber and gold – all the colours of a flame.
Ottilie did her best to guide Maestro into the cave Leo pointed out, but the wingerslink ignored her, and instead an impatient yet smug Leo took over. Maestro wove through the damp tunnels and caves only to find the wyler had eluded them. Finally they found themselves back outside on a rocky ledge high above the fiery river. That was where Ottilie caught sight of the wyler for the first time. Its orange fur was tufty and uneven, its jet-black legs were tipped with razor-sharp claws, and its twisted horns tapered to black, curved points. It stood on a ledge up ahead, staring at them with eyes that burned red in the twilight. It was then that Ottilie realised they hadn’t caught up; the wyler had just allowed itself to be found. The thought sent a shiver down her spine.
‘Thirty points,’ muttered Leo.
‘What?’
‘You get bonus points for a wyler.’
‘It’s making my head hurt.’
‘They can do that. Just try to ignore it.’
‘Will it come to us?’
Leo shook his head. ‘No. It knows we’ll go to it.’
‘Can’t we just shoot it from here?’
‘Sure, give that a try.’
Ottilie drew an arrow and fired at top speed, hoping to catch the wyler off-guard. It seemed that the dredretch didn’t even move, but the arrow cleared it by inches. Ottilie was sure it should have hit. She drew another, but Leo pushed her bow down.
‘Waste of arrows, it’ll just move again.’
‘I didn’t see it move the first time.’
‘It was quick.’
‘So what then?’
‘Knife at close range, while it’s distracted.’
Maestro kicked off from the ground and hurtled towards the wyler.
‘Knife, Ott!’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, you! Knife! When I say.’
Leo pulled Maestro around. The wingerslink let out a roar like thunder, landed in front of the wyler, and swatted at the dredretch with enough force to tumble a hut. The wyler skipped out of the way, almost too quick to see. Baring its rotting teeth at Ottilie, it pounced at her leg.
‘Now!’
Ottilie lunged forwards, piercing the wyler in the side with her knife. Black dredretch blood spurted out of the wound, splattering her face. The bloodthirsty wyler shrieked with rage, rolling away and stumbling to its feet. She had missed the heart.
‘Even with a salt blade it can heal fast. Shoot – now!’ said Leo.
Ottilie’s eyesight blurred as she squinted through the dredretch blood dripping from her brow. She raised her bow.
‘Don’t miss,’ Leo growled.
She loosed the arrow. Through narrowed, blood-impeded vision, she watched it strike the wyler directly in the heart. The dredretch rolled over and toppled off the edge of the canyon with a piercing yowl. Flesh melting away, the bones plunged into the darkness and disappeared from sight.
‘Good shot!’ said Leo. ‘You’ve been practising.’
Despite the fact it was the first compliment she had received from him, Ottilie didn’t respond. She was busy trying to wipe the dredretch blood out of her eyes without vomiting or permanently blinding herself.
‘That’ll be a nice trip for the shovelies,’ said Leo.
‘Shovelies?’ she said, squinting.
‘They go out and bury the bones.’
‘I thought the bone singers dealt with the bones.’
‘No. The bone singers seek the bones, then sprinkle things on them and sing about it – the shovelies bury them.’
‘So who are the shovelies then? Girls, like the custodians?’
‘Ha! No girls are brave enough to come out here.’
Ottilie clenched her jaw tight.
‘Well, some of the bone singers are girls, but we guard them – we’ll have to do singer duty soon, I haven’t in a while. No, shovelies are failed huntsmen, mostly.’
‘What?’ Ottilie had never heard of a huntsman failing. She wasn’t aware it was an option.
‘Sometimes they make a mistake with the pickings. They can’t hack it as huntsmen so they join the shovelies. That way they’re still contributing to the cause. Someone has to deal with the
bones.’
He nudged Maestro back into the air.
What was failing, exactly? Was there a standard they all had to meet? Did they have to achieve a certain number of points per year? Ottilie imagined coming to the end of her fledgling year, having slipped to the bottom of the rankings. She pictured Leo’s look of disgust as Captain Lyre announced she was simply not good enough to be a huntsman, and would have to join the shovelies.
Anxiety gripped her like a serpent coiling around her ribcage, squeezing her lungs. Was she good enough? Leo had talked her through every moment with the wyler. She had hardly done any of it herself.
‘Why did you give me those points? I thought you were going to take it,’ said Ottilie, bracing as they ascended.
‘You could use them.’
Ottilie flinched at the words, but decided not share her doubt with him. More than likely his response would only deepen her concern.
‘I’m well ahead,’ he added. ‘Thirty points hardly makes a difference to me.’
But Ottilie could tell he hated missing out on the points. It didn’t matter in the end; Leo was in top form for the rest of his shift and by the end of it he had collected nearly two hundred points. He would never have admitted it, but Ottilie knew he was going hard to make up for losing the wyler bonus. Sharing was not one of Leo’s virtues.
Sensing the warm light of the candle through closed eyes, Ottilie smiled. Leo was irate about the rain. Rain to him meant a wasted day. His shift was cancelled and he had a mandatory day off the next day. That was two whole days of zero points.
A bell tinkled from the front of the room. Ottilie’s eyes snapped open.
‘Slowly become aware of your surroundings,’ said Wrangler Morse in his rough, deep voice. He was perched on a pillow at the front of the room, holding a tiny bell in his enormous hand. ‘Ott Colter, I did not tell you to open your eyes.’
Ottilie Colter and the Narroway Hunt Page 16
