Haunted Warriors: The Rogues 3

by Lian Tanner

  ‘Wake up!’ cried Wilygirl. ‘I know you’re in there somewhere, and we’re desperate. The Harshman’s got Pummel and soon he’ll get Otte. You don’t want that, do you? He’ll be unstoppable then. He’ll kill Sooli, who’s the new Bayam. He’ll kill all of us. He’ll kill the Saaf. He’ll eat the land’s witchery.’

  Some of those words bothered the chicken. She tried not to think about them, but the mice she was chasing suddenly turned on her with teeth like kitchen knives. And then they were chasing her, screaming, ‘Bayam Saaf Harshman! Bayam Saaf Sooli!’

  The chicken ran and ran. But there was a black cloud around her now, and she couldn’t see where she was going. She flapped her wings. The black cloud turned to black water. The mice vanished. The chicken swam for her life. Someone shouted in her ear, ‘Bayam, wake up!’

  With a gasp, the chicken swam up out of the curse and remembered.

  Suddenly, her wings were arms and her beak was a mouth. Her red comb was black hair; her feet were no longer claws.

  She stared at Wilygirl, who stared back at her.

  ‘I – not a chicken,’ said the Bayam. ‘The curse – it makes me forget. But I am not – I am not a chicken.’ She looked around. ‘I am asleep, yes? You have come into my dreams, just as I came into yours?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the girl. Duckling, that was her name. The Bayam remembered all of it now. But it was an effort to hang onto it. The curse was so strong – it beat against her like huge black wings. It tried to drown her.

  ‘We must be quick,’ she said. ‘Even in a dream I cannot hold this shape for long.’

  Duckling nodded. ‘Tell us how to beat the Harshman.’

  In her dream, the Bayam let her consciousness expand outwards. Almost immediately it touched ice, and the bitter coldness shot straight to her heart. She flinched away. ‘He is everywhere. He has become part of the Keep. Part of the towers.’

  Duckling’s eyes widened. ‘Then how do we kill him?’

  But that blow to her heart – that spear of cold – had loosened the Bayam’s hold on her dream. She looked down at her feet and saw yellow claws again. She looked at her arms and saw wings.

  ‘You must—’ she said, and every word was an effort. ‘You must bring down – the Strong-hold.’

  Duckling’s eyes widened even more. ‘How do we do that?’

  Earwigs, thought the chicken.

  No, thought the Bayam. Not yet.

  But already everything was beginning to drift away from her. Memories, thoughts, the girl, they became smaller and smaller, even as she tried to cling to them.

  ‘How?’ cried the girl, from so far away that her voice was no more than a squeak. ‘How do we bring down the Strong-hold?’

  For one brief second, the answer was piercingly obvious. The chicken squawked, hoping the girl would understand. Then she turned her head towards the line of dream earwigs that were marching past, and with a cry of delight began to snap them up.

  ‘Wake the Grimstone?’ said Sooli, her eyes wide with shock. ‘Are you sure that is what she told you?’

  ‘No, I’m not at all sure,’ said Duckling. ‘She squawked, but there were words in there too. At least, I think there were. It sounded like “Wake Grimstone”.’

  ‘What is the Grimstone?’ asked Otte.

  Sooli looked down at the chicken, still asleep in her lap. ‘We are on top of it. It has been the sacred rock of the Saaf for thousands of years. It was where old women cast their spells and old men sang their songs. It was the centre of the Saaf world, until the first Margrave of Neuhalt built his Strong-hold on top of it.’

  ‘Hemmer the Harsh,’ whispered Otte, cuddling his mice in his hands. ‘The one who became the Harshman.’

  ‘But how do you wake a rock?’ asked Duckling. ‘It can’t be done. Maybe she didn’t say wake. Maybe she said – um – stake. Or break.’

  ‘My great-grandmother,’ said Sooli, ‘believed that the Grimstone was a living being.’

  There was a time when Duckling would have scoffed at such an idea. But over the last few weeks she had seen and done several impossible things. She had called the Grandfather Wind. She had ridden the Grandfather Wind. It was not such a great stretch to believe that a rock could be alive.

  ‘So what do we do?’ she asked. ‘How do we wake it?’

  Sooli looked stricken. ‘I do not know. I have never heard of it being done. I do not even know where to begin.’

  Lord Rump flicked the long reins, and his horse ambled forward. The cart he drove was piled high with bags of flour and casks of oil. Behind him, another twenty or more carts, carrying all manner of food and livestock, jolted into motion.

  Rump waved to the people who had gathered to cheer them on, and shouted, ‘Yes, the Faithful Throne is saved. Rejoice, my friends! Rejoice!’

  In a much quieter voice, he said, ‘The throne is saved, but I cannot say as much for the privy councillors. I wonder what the Margrave will say when he hears they tried to starve him and his people to death? I wonder how the nobles will react? I understand they are very fond of beheadings.’

  The four councillors, tucked neatly into hessian bags between the oil casks, did not answer. They could not answer, not while the poison lingered in their blood. But the silence was filled with unutterable loathing.

  Rump chuckled, and urged the horse up the road towards the Strong-hold.

  When he reached that mighty edifice, however, he stopped the cart and dismounted. ‘I am a cautious man,’ he murmured to his prisoners, waving the other carts past. ‘I am expecting a welcoming committee, but it is best to be sure. I will be back soon. Make yourselves comfortable while I am gone.’

  And with no ceremony at all, he entered the dark tunnel that led to the third bailey.

  In fact, he wasn’t just hoping for a welcoming committee. He was hoping for cheers of relief, accompanied by offers of wealth and power.

  ‘First Councillor Rump.’ He tried it out as he walked through the tunnel with the carts rolling past him. ‘Yes, that sounds very fine. I shall accept, with suitable expressions of gratitude. Though Duckling will not be happy about it.’

  Rump was not used to thinking of other people’s happiness. As a half-starved boy on the streets of Lawe, he had quickly learned that no one else thought about his happiness. They did not even care if he had enough to eat. They used to walk past his outstretched hand eating a butter pie or an apple turnover, and all he ever got out of it were the flakes of pastry that fell from their fingers.

  And so he had grown up relying only on himself. Thinking only of himself.

  But Duckling was different. She had the quickest mind (after his own) he had ever come across, and learned everything he taught her with enthusiasm and skill. He was used to having her around. He liked having her around.

  Lately, however, she had been pulling away from him. It was Pummel’s influence, mostly. With his ability to walk through walls, the boy was a gold mine, but his ridiculous honesty had corrupted Duckling and made her less reliable.

  Still, the thought of her unhappiness stuck in his throat …

  ‘Why am I even thinking of this?’ he asked himself. ‘I should be practising my acceptance speech. Look, here is the third bailey. Any moment now, I shall see the welcoming committee.’

  And he strode out into the sunshine, where a dozen farmers were already unloading their carts.

  There was a welcoming committee, but it was not at all welcoming. Its members greeted Rump with frozen stares. Then they leaped on him – ten of them, including Arms-mistress Krieg – before he could even draw his sword stick.

  He fought them every step of the way. He tried to bribe them. He explained that, as ambassador for the Spavey Isles, he was not subject to their laws.

  They did not seem to hear him. They were like automatons, creatures with no minds of their own. Even Krieg seemed to be under some strange control.

  And as he was pulled into the Great Chamber, with the air growing colder and colder around hi
m, Lord Rump understood why.

  Because there was the Harshman, sitting tall and terrible on the Faithful Throne, with ice all around him.

  ‘Come,’ said the Harshman.

  As his body obeyed, Lord Rump had time for two thoughts. Firstly, They were waiting for me. I should not have sent that message with Pummel’s mother.

  And secondly, Such power! I am envious …

  Pummel was thinking more clearly now. Something to do with standing next to Ma, and the love that stretched between them like a golden band, stopped his mind being taken over entirely. But it didn’t help him escape, and it didn’t stop the Harshman controlling his body.

  He could still feel the raashk tucked away in some part of the Harshman’s armour. Captive, like Pummel. Struggling to escape. Bound and helpless.

  When he saw Lord Rump dragged in, he groaned inwardly and his eyes swivelled towards Arms-mistress Krieg. He tried to send a message – How can we fight this?

  But Krieg looked as if she was trying to send him a message. The same one, probably.

  Behind him, a terrible voice said, ‘Boy … Come.’

  Pummel tried to stay where he was, but his legs turned him around and marched him like a soldier towards the throne.

  The Harshman waved his hand, and Arms-mistress Krieg and Lord Rump marched towards him too, as helpless as Pummel.

  ‘Where … Will … The … Children … Hide?’ demanded the Harshman, his eyes burning a hole in Pummel’s will.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Pummel, and that was the truth. But then his treacherous tongue said, ‘There is another hiding place on the eighth floor of the Keep. They might go there. Or back to the Grafine’s bedchamber.’

  That awful head turned to Lord Rump. ‘Where … Will … The … Children … Hide?’

  Pummel could see the battle that was going on behind Lord Rump’s eyes. But the words came out, all the same. ‘My granddaughter will – will not go anywhere Pummel knows about. She will – she will try to get her friends out of the Keep. If she cannot do that, she will find a bolthole.’

  ‘What … Sort … Of … Bolthole?’

  Now Lord Rump fought against the Harshman’s control with all his strength. He jammed his mouth shut. He clenched his fists. He tried to turn away without speaking.

  His rebellion lasted no time at all. With a groan, he opened his mouth and said, ‘She will choose – a place that has already been searched. A – a closet, or a small bedchamber with at least two entrances, so she cannot be accidentally trapped. Somewhere that is uncomfortable in some way, so no one will go there unless they must.’

  The Harshman turned to Arms-mistress Krieg. ‘Where … Will … The … Children … Hide?’

  The arms-mistress fought even harder than Lord Rump. Her face turned blue with the effort, and she managed to grunt, ‘No!’

  But then she too was overcome. ‘There are – several places,’ she said, ‘that fit the description. There is a guard post on the roof, very close to the edge. There is a bedchamber on the tenth floor, right next to the privy. There is a linen closet on the ground floor that is the coldest place in the Keep. Though its second entrance leads only to another closet.’

  ‘Which … Of … Those … Would … The … Children … Favour?’ demanded the Harshman.

  ‘My granddaughter does not – does not like heights,’ said Lord Rump. He was still trying to fight his own tongue, without success. ‘So she would not go to the roof. I have taught her to avoid places where there is no escape route. So she would not go to the linen closet. That leaves – that leaves—’ He actually managed to stop himself at that point, though his eyes bulged so terribly that he looked as if he might burst. But it was too late.

  ‘The … Bedchamber.’ The Harshman turned back to Pummel. ‘Go … To … That … Place … And … Catch … The … Heir … For … Me.’

  To his unending horror, Pummel found himself nodding.

  ‘Say … To … Him … Otte … I … Have … Escaped … Come … Quickly.’

  Pummel tried to jam his mouth shut. Tried to bite his tongue. But the words came out anyway. ‘Otte, I have escaped. Come quickly.’

  ‘Smile,’ said the Harshman.

  Pummel smiled.

  ‘Take … A … Candle.’

  Pummel took a candle.

  ‘Go.’

  And Pummel went.

  Somewhere in his heart, he was hoping that, once he was out of the Harshman’s sight, he would be himself again. But the terrible lack of control continued, all the way out of the Great Chamber and into the rooms and passages that surrounded it.

  He didn’t realise straight away that he had company. It was only when he started up the first flight of stairs that he heard the wings overhead, and realised the Harshman had sent the hawk after him.

  He would have shuddered, but he couldn’t.

  Up and up and up he went, with the hawk close above him. That’s good, he told himself. Duckling will see the bird. She’ll know it’s a trap.

  But as they approached the tenth floor, the hawk fell back, until the sound of its wings was gone. There was no one to warn his friends but Pummel himself. And the only words he could utter were the wrong ones.

  He tried to fall over. He tried to walk so close to the wall that he would hit his head on it and be knocked out. He tried to hold his breath until he fainted.

  Nothing worked. He kept walking, right up to the door of the room next to the privy. And when he was close, his mouth opened, and he called softly, ‘Otte, I have escaped. Come quickly.’

  There was a breath of silence, during which Pummel hoped with all his heart that Arms-mistress Krieg and Lord Rump were wrong, and that there was no one here.

  But there came an answering whisper. ‘Pummel? Is that you?’

  There was a scraping sound, as if something was being moved away from the door. Then it opened. And there stood Duckling, Sooli, the chicken, the cat – and Otte.

  When Duckling heard Pummel’s voice, her heart jumped in her chest. ‘He’s escaped,’ she whispered, and she could see the same relief in Sooli’s and Otte’s eyes.

  But the cat said, ‘Caaareful.’ And the chicken made a nervous sound.

  So instead of leaping to her feet and bursting straight out of the little bedchamber, Duckling put Otte behind her, closer to the second door. Then she hummed up her breeze and whispered to it, ‘See if it’s just Pummel. See if there’s anyone else with him.’

  The breeze whisked away, and came back in an instant. The only sound it brought was Pummel’s breathing, which was hard and fast. But that was no surprise if he had just escaped from the Harshman.

  Duckling nodded to Sooli and Otte, pushed the brass candlesticks out of the way and opened the door.

  And there was Pummel, with a smile on his face, a candle in his hand, and his other hand reaching out towards them. ‘Otte,’ he said again. ‘I have escaped. Come quickly.’

  Which was – odd. Because those were the exact same words he’d used a moment ago. And they didn’t sound quite right. They didn’t sound like Pummel.

  Otte slipped out from behind Duckling, but she grabbed him before he could go too far. ‘Pummel,’ she said. ‘Are you alone?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Pummel.

  But something in his stance said, No.

  The hair on the back of Duckling’s neck stood on end. It was all she could do to keep her voice even. ‘Can you hold that candle a bit higher? It’s awfully dark, and we don’t want anyone creeping up on us.’

  By this time, Sooli had also realised there was something wrong. She stepped around Duckling, with the chicken in her arms, and placed herself in front of Otte. The cat stalked towards Pummel, her tail twitching and a low growl in her throat.

  Pummel raised the candle, higher and higher, until the light fell on his eyes. They were not the eyes of a boy who had just escaped from great danger. They were white-rimmed and desperate. They were pleading. They were filled with horror.

  ‘The
Harshman’s controlling him!’ cried Duckling. ‘Otte, run!’

  Otte did his best. He slipped back around Duckling and took off as fast as he could for the other door, while Duckling, Sooli and the cat threw themselves at Pummel, trying to block his way.

  They would have succeeded, but for the hawk. It appeared out of nowhere, its great wings beating past them. It flew over Otte’s head and dived at him with beak and claws, until he stumbled back towards Pummel. Then it turned its ferocity on Sooli and the chicken.

  Sooli tried to weave an escape with her invisible hands, but the hawk’s attack was too fierce. Duckling tried to hum up her breeze, but she needed all her breath for fighting off that terrible beak and those grasping claws. The cat leaped around her, yowling with rage. The hawk’s wings thrashed past her head, the chicken cackled, Otte shouted for help—

  ‘Pummel’s got him!’ Duckling cried to Sooli, and they redoubled their efforts to get past the hawk.

  Duckling managed to hum up her breeze at last. The cat leaped into the air, and came down again with feathers flying around her. Sooli’s arms shook as she tried to weave the silver paths without letting go of the chicken.

  ‘Help!’ cried Otte, from further away this time.

  Duckling took a step back from Sooli. She ripped off her tunic and tossed it to the breeze. ‘Cover its eyes and wings!’ she cried.

  The tunic swirled away from her. The hawk dodged, but not even a magical bird could outpace the wind.

  The cloth dropped over its head. The hawk screeched horribly and fought against it, but Duckling was still humming, with her teeth bared and her fists clenched.

  The cat flung herself across an abyss of air – and landed on top of the hawk, which plummeted to the floor. In an instant, the cat’s jaws were fastened on the back of its neck.

  ‘Kill it,’ cried Sooli. ‘Its death will weaken the Harshman.’

  ‘Will it?’ asked Duckling. She was heaving for breath, staring in the direction Pummel had taken Otte. They were going back to the Great Chamber.

  Of course they were.