Haunted Warriors: The Rogues 3

by Lian Tanner

  She looked down at the loathsome bird. The tunic had slipped a little, and the hawk glared back at her, full of spite and hatred. ‘Maybe the Harshman will want it back,’ she said. ‘Maybe he’ll bargain with us.’

  Blood was trickling down Sooli’s face from where the hawk had attacked her. There was blood on the chicken, too, and they were both trembling just as hard as Duckling. But Sooli said, firmly, ‘He will not let go of Otte.’

  ‘We’ve got nothing else,’ said Duckling. ‘We have to try.’

  She wrapped the tunic more firmly around the hawk’s head and claws, so it couldn’t hurt her. She pinioned its wings, and picked it up.

  Then, in the blind hope that she might somehow be able to bargain with the Harshman – my friends for your bird – she ran after Pummel, with Sooli and the chicken beside her, and the cat, still hissing with fury, at her heels.

  Delivering Otte to the Harshman was the most painful thing Pummel had ever done. He battled against it every inch of the way, but it made no difference.

  Otte understood, which made it even worse. ‘I know you have not betrayed me,’ he said, as Pummel dragged him towards the Great Chamber. ‘I know you cannot help it.’

  Pummel could have wept with the awfulness of it. He wanted to throw himself down the last flight of stairs, so Otte could escape. He wanted to walk slowly, so Duckling and Sooli could catch them. But his treacherous legs hurried him along, and his treacherous hands kept a firm grip on his friend.

  The Great Chamber was packed from wall to wall with grafs and grafines, but when they saw Pummel and Otte, they stepped back as one. Some of them looked dismayed. Some of them looked angry.

  But others showed their teeth and whispered the words of their master, ‘The … Heir … Has … Come.’

  Pummel marched the length of the Great Chamber, his hand gripping Otte’s arm so tightly that it must have hurt. Otte said nothing. His eyes tracked across the faces of the nobles. His lips moved, but no sound came out.

  And then they were standing in front of the Faithful Throne, with the Harshman staring hungrily at Otte. ‘The … Heir … Has … Come,’ he said, and he raised a bony finger and beckoned.

  Pummel tried to hold onto the younger boy, but he could not defy the will of the Harshman. Neither could Otte. Trembling from head to foot, his eyes wide with anguish, he walked up the steps to the throne. His mice stood on his shoulders, trembling just as hard, but protective to the last.

  The Harshman stood up. His armour clanked. Something inside him rattled. He reached for Otte – but then his head jerked, and his eyes turned to the rear of the Chamber.

  ‘Who … Has … Dared?’ he growled.

  Everyone in the Chamber turned to look, just as Duckling, Sooli and the chicken, and the cat walked through the great doors.

  The Chamber was so long, and they were so far away, that it took a moment for Pummel to realise what they were carrying.

  But then the Harshman roared, ‘WHO … HAS … DARED?’

  And Pummel realised that his friends had captured the hawk.

  He felt a tiny speck of hope – no bigger than a hair on the nose of a newborn calf. He felt a slight loosening of the Harshman’s control. He couldn’t move his feet. He couldn’t snatch Otte and run. But he could turn his head far enough to look at Ma.

  And if he squinted, the way he might if he was trying to see a ghost, he could see the bright band of love that joined them together.

  Duckling and Sooli strode up the Great Chamber as if they were completely unafraid. The cat stalked beside them, her fur bristling. The chicken cocked her head, and her bright eyes took in everything.

  They stopped twenty paces from the Faithful Throne. The hawk was struggling so fiercely that Duckling had to hold her head back out of its way, but when she spoke, her voice was clear and strong. ‘We wish to strike a bargain.’

  A shiver ran through the Chamber.

  ‘We have your hawk,’ continued Duckling. ‘We will exchange it for Otte and Pummel. Give them to us, and you can have your bird back.’

  The Harshman seemed to swell up, bigger than ever. His teeth clattered. ‘I … Do … Not … Give,’ he rasped. ‘I … Take.’

  ‘We’ll kill it,’ warned Duckling.

  ‘Then … Kill … It,’ said the Harshman. ‘I … Do … Not … Need … It … Anymore.’ He waved a bony hand that took in the Great Chamber, the Strong-hold, the city beyond it, and the whole country of Neuhalt. ‘All … This … Is … Mine.’

  The fragile speck of hope in Pummel’s heart fizzled and died. The world was crumbling around him and there was no comfort, no comfort at all, except his love for Ma. That bright band was still there between them, as steadfast as ever.

  But – Pummel blinked – it wasn’t the only band crossing the Chamber. There was one linking him to Duckling, too. It was bright silver, like metal that had been tested and broken, and put back together stronger than ever. And there were more – his friendship with Otte. And Sooli. And Arms-mistress Krieg. Even, in an odd sort of way, with Lord Rump.

  In fact, now he was looking for them, he could see a whole latticework of bands, running back and forth across that enormous room. Some were golden, some were silver. Some were unravelling from disuse; others were strengthening with age. Everyone had them, including the dogs.

  Everyone except the Harshman. Not a single band went towards him or away from him. No one loved him, and he loved no one.

  He didn’t seem to notice the bands. Or maybe he just didn’t care about them.

  But someone did.

  The Margravine’s ghost.

  To Pummel’s astonishment, he could see her, even without the raashk. She was walking towards Otte and the Harshman, and as she passed through all those bands of love and friendship and comfort-in-times-of-trouble, she took strength from them and grew a little more solid.

  And a little more.

  And a little more.

  She glanced at Pummel and her lips moved. But although he could see her, he couldn’t hear her. Something tightened in his chest. Could she save Otte? Could she free him from the Harshman’s control? Could she—

  Hope welled up inside him again. But not for long. As the Margravine came within an arm’s length of the Harshman, he casually reached out and grabbed her.

  Nearly all her new-found strength fell away, and she was a ghost again. All Pummel could see was the thin outline of a warrior – as the Harshman drew her towards his gaping mouth.

  But before he could swallow her, she used her last bit of strength to give the raashk a nudge. It flew out of the Harshman’s armour and straight to Pummel’s hand.

  Sooli’s head jerked up, as if she had felt the change. So did the chicken’s, and Duckling’s. The Harshman’s invisible grip on Pummel loosened.

  Pummel didn’t hesitate. He sprang forward, seized hold of Otte and dragged him towards Duckling and Sooli. At the same time, Duckling threw the hawk into the air, grabbed a handful of pebbles out of Sooli’s pocket and tossed them onto a bare patch of floor, where Sooli kicked them into the familiar pattern of a Snare.

  The cat leaped up onto Duckling’s shoulder, yowling a warning. ‘Haaaarsh!’

  The Harshman had dropped the Margravine’s ghost uneaten, and was only a step or two behind Pummel and Otte. The rushes froze beneath his feet. Icicles crashed from the rafters.

  But the raashk was in Pummel’s hand, and that was all he needed. Still clutching Otte, he raised the tooth to his eye. Duckling grabbed hold of him with one hand and Sooli with the other.

  And as the Harshman reached for them, Pummel dragged his friends into the Snare.

  Duckling could feel Pummel’s arm under her hand, the cat on her shoulder, and Sooli beside her. But everything else was mist. She could see nothing except billowing whiteness. She could hear nothing except her own pulse beating in her ears.

  No, wait. The mist was thinning a little – just enough to see that the chicken had vanished and in her place stood a baref
ooted Saaf woman, with three night-black feathers in her hair and a fur cloak wrapped tightly around her.

  She was no taller than Duckling, but she seemed much bigger. The windmill tucked inside Duckling’s shirt twitched and began to turn. The cat purred.

  ‘Great Bayam,’ whispered Sooli in an awestruck voice.

  The great Bayam raised a hand for silence. She listened intently. ‘He is following us. Come quickly!’

  She ran past Duckling, and the children ran after her, with no idea where they were going. The mist shuddered around them like a living thing. Somewhere behind them, the hawk shrieked.

  Duckling tried to run faster, but now the mist was growing thicker. It dragged at her like treacle; it smelled of graves and rotting fruit, and murder and loss and dispossession.

  The Bayam glanced over her shoulder and cried, in a voice that rang with witchery, ‘Seleeg! Grandfather Wind! Help us!’

  The Grandfather Wind rushed up behind them and drove them forward. It shoved at their backs and gave strength to their legs. When the mist tried to stop them, when it grew so thick that Duckling could hardly breathe, the wind blew air into her mouth and nose.

  Occasionally, she glimpsed stone walls on either side of her. The sun hurtled past above their heads, in the wrong direction. The moon followed, over and over again. Before long, Duckling was dizzy with the nonsense of it, with the feeling that everything was trying to drag them back the other way.

  But the Bayam kept going.

  Beside Duckling, Sooli was bent almost double. Her eyes were closed, and she was gritting her teeth, as if she was in great pain. Her hands were visible again, but Otte’s wooden leg had vanished, and Pummel was carrying him.

  Duckling’s feet felt as if they were tied to a sled, and half the world sitting on it, expecting to be pulled. The mist dragged at her. The cat’s claws dug into her shoulder. It was like a dream, and at the same time it was as real as anything she had ever done.

  And then, just as she began to feel that she would be running forever, the stone walls on either side of her began to shrink.

  With a cry of relief, the Bayam threw herself forward, pulling all of them with her – and they tumbled out of the Snare onto bare rock.

  It was nighttime, and the stars were bright above them. The air was clean and cold. There was no sign of the Strong-hold, but in the distance, Duckling could see a spark of light.

  ‘There!’ cried the great Bayam. And she began to run towards the light.

  They followed as best they could. Duckling put down the cat, and she and Pummel carried Otte, with Sooli keeping pace beside them.

  The light turned out to be a fire burning in a circle of stones, with four people sitting around it. Duckling recognised them from her dreams in the salt mines.

  But her dreams had not shown her how these four shimmered with power. Her dreams had not made her feel as if she should kneel, or fall flat on her face, in case one of them deigned to notice her. Her dreams had not told her how small and pitiful she was, even with a witchy breeze at her command.

  The woman who sat closest to Duckling was the colour of sand, with hair of the same colour blowing across her face. Except it wasn’t a face; it was a wooden mask. No, there was nothing there at all, just dry, parched air that—

  No, it was a face again.

  Beside the sandy woman sat a short man with red hair and skin that flickered in the firelight. Beside him was a dark old man with sinewy arms, who narrowed his eyes at the children in a way that made Duckling shiver.

  The last of the four was a tiny old woman with black skin, black hair and black eyes. Her head barely reached the old man’s shoulder; her hands were those of a child. But the other three left a respectful space around her, as if she was much, much bigger than she appeared.

  After all that desperate running, the great Bayam approached the fire quietly. When the four turned to look at her, she tapped the fingers of her left hand against her forehead, her breast and her belly.

  ‘Old Ones,’ she said. ‘We beg permission to warm ourselves at your fire.’

  The Old Ones looked at each other without speaking for what felt like half a lifetime. Then they nodded, and the Bayam, the children and the cat hurried forward.

  Just in time. There was a howl behind them – and the Harshman exploded out of the Snare in a cascade of ice.

  The flames of the fire sank, then rose again. The four people who sat around it did not turn, but their faces were grim.

  As the Harshman stormed towards them, Duckling and Pummel threw themselves in front of Otte, and Sooli and the great Bayam threw themselves in front of Duckling and Pummel. Duckling’s knees trembled. Her face was icy from the approach of the Harshman; her back was hot from the fire. She felt like a battleground, and had no idea which side would win.

  But the Harshman stopped some distance away, and circled them with howls of rage, as if he could not get closer. Duckling could hear his clanking footsteps, and the heavy beat of the hawk’s wings overhead.

  ‘LET … ME … PASS,’ roared the Harshman. ‘THE … HEIR … IS … MINE.’

  The four figures did not move. But the Bayam cried, ‘Will you beg permission to approach?’

  ‘I … DO … NOT … BEG.’

  ‘Good,’ the Bayam said quietly, and she drew the children around her. ‘Ask for what you need,’ she whispered to them. ‘Ask politely. There are forces here greater than you can imagine.’

  Duckling believed her. She wasn’t sure who she feared more, the Harshman or those four strange, silent figures. But she summoned up all her courage and said, ‘Old Ones, can you wake the Grimstone? Please?’

  The old woman leered up at her, toothless and frightful. ‘Little servant,’ she said, and Duckling felt even smaller. ‘You wish us to wake the Grimstone?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Duckling. ‘Yes, please.’

  The old woman shook her head. ‘No.’

  Duckling had been expecting a ‘yes’. After all, that was why she and her friends were here! It was why they had forced their way through the mist; it was why they had come so far when everything was trying to turn them back the other way.

  She was so astonished at the old woman’s answer that she forgot about politeness and blurted, ‘But – but you must!’

  ‘We do not take kindly to must,’ said the old woman, and her eyes were like black tunnels with no light at either end.

  ‘I didn’t mean—’ began Duckling.

  The old man interrupted her. ‘Must is power misused.’

  ‘Must is forcing your will on another,’ said the sandy woman.

  Sooli stepped forward then, and the four turned their ocean-wide gaze on her.

  ‘New Bayam,’ said the red-haired man.

  ‘Young Bayam,’ said the old man.

  ‘Far too young Bayam,’ sneered the old woman. ‘What use is she?’

  Sooli flushed. ‘Please, Old Ones. We must stop the Harshman, and the only way to do that is to bring down the Strong-hold. And the only way to do that is to wake the Grimstone.’

  Now, for the first time, the four looked interested. As their eyes passed over Duckling, she felt as if she was flying … burning … parched with thirst … dying. She staggered, and would have fallen if Pummel hadn’t caught her. But then the Old Ones looked at him, and he was the one falling.

  It was too much for Duckling. By the time those four pairs of eyes fell on Otte, making him squeak with pain and fright, she was angry. ‘Don’t hurt him,’ she said.

  That was a mistake. They turned back to her, and there she was again, flying … burning—

  ‘Stop it!’ she shouted. ‘You’re as bad as the Harshman. Stop being cruel!’

  The pain eased. But somewhere outside the circle of light, the Harshman chuckled, low and nasty, as if she had played into his hands.

  Duckling shivered, but she wasn’t going to back down now. One of the things Grandpa had taught her was that there were plenty of kings and queens who liked to see peopl
e crawl on their knees. But some liked people who stood up straight and spoke plainly. The trick was knowing which was which.

  The four in front of her weren’t kings and queens, but they weren’t ordinary, either. They were gods, or winds, or spirits of some sort. The old woman was the most powerful; you couldn’t fight her and win, not for long.

  But that didn’t mean you had to lie down and accept her nastiness.

  It took all Duckling’s training to speak calmly and plainly. All Grandpa’s years of advice and teaching. All his tricks, and a few of Duckling’s own.

  ‘The way I see it,’ she said, ‘you don’t want the Harshman to win any more than we do. If he kills Otte and becomes unstoppable, you’ll lose your little servants. You won’t have a Mistress of Winds or a Bayam. You won’t have anything, not anymore. Listen to him.’

  They all listened. They couldn’t help it – the Harshman wasn’t chuckling anymore; now he was roaring like a storm – the sort that cracks houses open and turns everyone inside to mush. He battered against the power that held him away from the fire. He bellowed. He shrieked. And then he went quiet, which was the worst of all.

  ‘Please,’ begged Duckling. ‘Please can you wake the Grimstone?’

  The four gods or winds or whatever they were turned their gaze to each other. They said not a word, but something passed between them all the same. They turned back to Duckling.

  ‘We cannot wake the Grimstone,’ said the sandcoloured woman.

  ‘But—’

  ‘We cannot,’ repeated the woman. And her voice was so firm and sure that Duckling knew she spoke the truth.

  Duckling felt tired beyond belief. All her hopes had drained away, leaving nothing behind. She had no idea where to turn next.

  But now the old woman spoke. ‘We cannot wake the Grimstone. But you can.’

  Pummel took an eager step forward. ‘We can? How?’

  ‘It takes a sacrifice to wake such a sleeper,’ said the old woman. She sounded pleased, as if sacrifices were something she looked forward to.

  ‘We’ll do it,’ said Pummel. ‘Anything.’