by Lian Tanner
A tremor ran through him. His face convulsed with rage and fear. ‘GET … HER … AWAY … FROM … ME,’ he roared.
But before the grafs could obey him, Duckling shouted, ‘If you touch her, you’ll die. Look at her hands! Death is taking her, and now it’s taking the Harshman too. See how his armour is falling off? See how he’s turning to bone? If you touch either of them, you’ll follow him to the grave.’
The grafs stopped in their tracks. Because, yes, a piece of the Harshman’s armour had fallen off, and rusted away to nothing before it hit the floor. And he was turning to bone. Even as they watched, his ears vanished. His breastplate disintegrated. His ribs began to show, and something small and black, like a rotten walnut, tumbled out from between them.
The grafs backed away. They had been drawn to the Harshman by his power and the promise of glory. But this was not glory, and they had no intention of following their master to the grave. As soon as they were far enough away, they turned and ran for the door.
But now there came a new danger. With an earsplitting shriek, the hawk burst from the Snare and flew at the children in a storm of wings and claws. Pummel and Duckling fought it off with their bare hands, trying to keep it away from Sooli. The cat crawled out from underneath the bear and launched herself at her old enemy with her claws unsheathed.
And then Grandpa, Krieg and Pummel’s ma were there, too, freed from their fight with the other grafs, who had decided to save their own skins.
‘Hold the hawk off!’ cried Duckling. And she and Pummel turned back to Otte and Sooli.
Because they were in trouble too. Otte’s face was as white as paper, and his mice clung panting to his shoulders. As for Sooli, her arms had disappeared almost entirely. Death had its hooks in both of them.
By now, the Harshman was nothing but bones, and even they were beginning to decay. Nothing could stop what was happening to him. He was gone, and so was all his greed and his hatred.
Duckling grabbed hold of Sooli, knowing that it was dangerous, but desperate to drag the other girl away from those disintegrating bones. Pummel grabbed Otte, and managed to drag him free.
But Sooli cried, ‘I cannot let go. I am trying, but I cannot!’
Pummel and Otte joined with Duckling then, trying to keep Sooli alive, trying to shake her loose of the bones. But how could four children fight death itself? How could they fight the Grafine’s path, which had wound itself so firmly around Sooli, and around the Harshman?
Duckling’s heart faltered in her chest. Her hands, where she clung to Sooli, were growing colder, as if she was being dragged to the grave too. She cried out, ‘We’re here, Sooli. You’re not alone!’
Then she closed her eyes, set her feet wide and concentrated. Just pull, she told herself. Don’t worry about anything else. Just pull.
And then Grandpa was behind her, seizing her with his strong, capable hands. Krieg was there too, and Brun and Pummel’s ma. They pulled and they pulled. Life versus death. Love and hate, wrestling for dominion. And the Keep falling apart around them.
There was a moment when it might have gone either way. Duckling couldn’t tell if she was warm or cold, but she thought her heart was beating slower than it had been. There was so much dust that she could hardly breathe.
This is it, she thought. This is our death, just as the Old Ones told us. I’d much rather live, but at least we’ve gotten rid of the Harshman.
But Grandpa wouldn’t give up. He bellowed, ‘Sooli, whatever has hold of you, wind it around the bones and let it go.’
In a weak voice, Sooli cried, ‘I cannot. I do not have any magic left. I cannot influence the paths.’
‘Forget magic,’ roared Grandpa. ‘Pretend! Do you hear me? How do you think I have lived my whole life? How do you think I have won and lost fortunes? Pretend!’
Duckling felt Sooli shudder with the effort. She was so weak now that even pretence was almost beyond her.
But then something changed. The cold in Duckling’s hands began to retreat. She opened her eyes and realised that she could see Sooli’s shoulders again. She could see her upper arms!
Pummel cried out, ‘You’re doing it, Sooli. Keep going!’
And they all pulled.
The final moment – that perilous second when life won over death; when the hawk vanished with a sound like a gunshot; when the Harshman’s bones crumbled to powder – came upon them so suddenly and with such force that every single one of them was tossed through the air, all the way out of the Keep and into the bailey beyond.
Duckling lay where she had landed, clutching one of the stuffed bears from the Great Chamber, and wondering how she was still alive.
Will you give up the life you would have lived? The story that would have been yours?
The first bailey was in an uproar, with nobles, cooks, pig herders, washerwomen, dogs, mice and soldiers streaming towards the second bailey. A gargoyle arced through the air and landed just feet away from Duckling. The ground shook. The early morning sky spun from side to side.
She pushed the bear away and staggered to her feet, muttering, ‘I have to find Grandpa.’
It was hard to find anyone in all that noise and ruination. Every face was plastered white with dust and shock, and Duckling was not the only person searching for those she loved. She recognised Sooli because the other girl was piggybacking Otte. She recognised Otte by the mice that clung to his shoulder, chittering in dismay.
‘We saw your grandpa,’ shouted Sooli. She pointed, and there were her hands, back in the land of the living. ‘He was over there.’
‘Have you seen Brun? And Arms-mistress Krieg?’ asked Otte.
Duckling shook her head, and hurried in the direction Sooli had pointed.
She found Pummel and Grandpa at the same time. Pummel was trying to shift a fallen beam. Grandpa lay trapped beneath it, swearing.
His yellow waistcoat was dark with blood. His hair was dishevelled, his face covered in dust. But when he saw Duckling, he reached for her. ‘My sweet granddaughter,’ he croaked. ‘I was hoping to see you once more before I died.’
‘You’re not going to die,’ cried Duckling, though horror was creeping up inside her. The beam looked so heavy!
She grabbed hold of it, and she and Pummel heaved. But it would not move. ‘Maybe we can drag you out,’ she said.
Lord Rump held up his hand. ‘No, I am too broken. I feel death approaching, as fast as a train.’
‘No, Grandpa!’
‘Yes, my dear—’
The ground shook again. ‘You must go,’ said Grandpa. ‘Right now, before it is too late.’
‘We can’t leave you here,’ said Duckling.
‘You must leave me here,’ said her grandpa. ‘I am an old man, and my time is done. You have your whole lives in front of you.’
Directly behind them, the Lynx Tower began to fall. It was almost as big as the Keep, and the sound of its collapse was like a roll of thunder that seemed to go on forever. For a moment, Duckling couldn’t hear anything else.
But she said, through her tears, ‘I’m not leaving you, Grandpa.’ And she clung to his hand, and wept.
Lord Rump swore loud and long. Then he took his hand back and said, in the coldest voice he had ever used with her, ‘Very well. I did not want to tell you this, but I must. You are not really my granddaughter.’
Duckling’s tears dried up in mid-flow. ‘What? But—’
‘I bought you in the Spoke markets when you were an infant, in case I ever needed a disposable girl. You have done well enough, I suppose, but I have no wish to keep you by my side.’
He fumbled among the fallen rafters and came up holding his cane. ‘Take this as payment for your services. There now, we are done. Go, and let me die in peace.’
Duckling might have crouched there for hours with the cane in her hand, trying to take in what he had just told her. But the Grimstone was moving again, and stones and gargoyles were tumbling all around her.
Pummel grabbed he
r and dragged her away, out of the first bailey and into the second. When they stumbled into the third bailey, they found themselves in a crowd of people and animals, all running away.
Because the other towers were falling now – Bear Tower, Hawk Tower and Wolf Tower were crumbling to dust as the Grimstone bucked beneath them – and everyone was racing to escape, pouring through the main gates, which were wide open.
Pummel gasped. ‘The curse is broken! Look, Duckling!’
Duckling didn’t answer. She couldn’t answer. All she could think of was Grandpa. Except he’s not my grandpa. He’s just someone who bought me.
She felt sick to her stomach; the one thing that had anchored her life had been torn away, leaving her adrift and homeless. She clutched the cane, as if it might save her.
Pummel dragged her through the main gates and into the crowd that milled and shouted outside the walls. The grafs and grafines were there, and so were the cooks and chambermaids and soldiers and servants, every one of them worn and ragged from days of doing the Harshman’s bidding.
But the people of the city were there too, summoned by the shaking of the earth and the enormity of what was happening. And in among them, in a tight little phalanx, were several hundred of Sooli’s people, the Saaf.
At any other time, they would have been arrested on the spot and accused of all sorts of imaginary crimes. But now, like everyone else in the crowd, they stared at the Strong-hold with horrified fascination.
The whole thing was crumbling. The towers, the massive walls, the history, the gargoyles, the dungeons, the hatred, the plots and assassinations, the stuffed bears, the turrets, the curse. And somewhere underneath it all was Grandpa. Who was not Grandpa.
Duckling began to shiver. Pummel wrapped his arms around her, just as his ma turned up from somewhere, along with Arms-mistress Krieg, Otte, Brun, Sooli, the cat and the chicken.
They all looked stunned. The whole crowd looked stunned. For five hundred years, the Strong-hold had loomed over Berren like a small mountain.
Now that mountain was turned to dust.
The Grimstone gave one final shake and grew still. But that last shake was the worst of all. People fell against each other, screaming. Those who were badly injured moaned with fear and pain. Those who had so far escaped with nothing more than bruises clutched their heads and prayed to every god they had ever heard of, and several others as well, just in case.
And then the winds came.
They came from north, south, east and west, blowing over the heads of the terrified crowd in a long, triumphal sweep. Everyone crouched low, covering their faces and jamming their eyes shut. The winds swept into every nook and cranny. They howled and they sang and they screamed.
Then they picked up the dust that used to be the greatest castle in the western hemisphere, and carried it away.
By the time people opened their eyes again, there was barely a sign that the Strong-hold had ever existed. In its place, the top of a great rock stretched out before them. If Duckling squinted, she could almost see the shape of a man.
‘The Grimstone,’ breathed Sooli. ‘It is the sacred Grimstone, as it should be. An ancient wrong has been righted.’
Otte had been leaning against Arms-mistress Krieg. Now he straightened up and said, in an odd voice, ‘The life that should have been mine. The story that should have been mine. It is gone.’
Sooli nodded slowly. ‘Mine too. I do not know if I my magic will ever come back to me, but for now at least I am no longer Bayam.’ She looked sad at the thought, and more than a bit lost. But she also looked as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders.
Duckling managed to say, ‘Mine too.’
Pummel’s arm tightened around her. ‘I don’t think any of our lives will be the same after this.’
‘Perhaps that is a good thing,’ said Otte.
Duckling didn’t think it was a good thing. She was glad to be alive, glad she wasn’t going to die, but she couldn’t get past the awfulness of what Grandpa – of what Lord Rump had told her. She felt dizzy with loss.
‘I don’t even know who I am,’ she whispered to Pummel.
‘You’re my friend,’ he said, hugging her. ‘You’re our friend.’ Then he took the cane from her hand, saying, ‘Hasn’t this got a little brandy flask in it somewhere? How do you open it?’
Duckling knew that a sip of brandy wasn’t going to change anything. But she showed him how to unscrew the cap of the cane and lift out the brass vial.
A scrap of paper came with it. Duckling would have ignored it, but Otte seized it and said, ‘It is a message addressed to you, Duckling.’
She took it warily, fearing that this was more bad news, something that would shake her world even worse than it had already been shaken.
It was Lord Rump’s handwriting, though it looked as if it had been dashed off in a hurry. The ink was smudged and smeared, and there were specks of blood on the paper.
Duckling held it up to the light, her heart beating painfully.
Dearest Granddaughter, said the note.
She swallowed.
Dearest Granddaughter. Because yes, you are my granddaughter. I know you will come for me, and I know your loyalty will keep you by my side. And then we will both die, which would be a terrible waste of all the work I have put into training you.
So I will lie to you if necessary, to make you leave me – which will be the only truly unselfish thing I have ever done. Those who know me would be astonished. I am astonished.
Do not regret my death, oh best of granddaughters. Go forth into the world, and if you occasionally think of your poor old grandpapa, do not be sad. I have lived a most enjoyable life – and I leave you in good hands, with good friends about you.
Signed, your loving grandpa, Rump.
Tears rolled down Duckling’s face as she read the note. This was the Grandpa she knew – tricky, devious and completely untrustworthy. But in the end, loving.
‘He sent me away to save me,’ she sobbed.
She felt heartbroken all over again, but now at least there was a warmth underlying it. The ground felt steady beneath her feet. She was who she was, and so was Grandpa. He might be gone, but she would never forget him.
Beside her, Brun was saying to Otte, ‘I am sorry I sent you to the dungeons. I am sorry I denied you. But the Grafine had already tried to kill me twice – I was trying to protect you. I thought you would be safe in the dungeons.’
‘I knew there was a reason,’ said Otte, smiling. ‘I just did not know what it was.’ Then he looked at the milling crowd and said, ‘But that is finished. We will have to start building new lives. For all of Neuhalt.’
‘And for the Saaf,’ said Sooli. ‘Different lives. Different stories. True stories this time.’
All around them, the people of Berren were blinking, brushing the dust from their faces and staring at the Saaf, who stood so proudly in their midst. Some of the city people cleared their throats in an embarrassed fashion and whispered to each other, ‘It was never sabotage, was it? How could we have believed such a thing?’
Others stepped forward and said a halting hello.
The woman who stood at the front of the group of Saaf replied, ‘The ghosts told us to come. We wish to make a treaty.’
‘My auntie,’ Sooli whispered to Duckling.
The city people nodded wisely and said to each other, ‘Of course it was the ghosts. I have always believed in them, myself.’ And, ‘A treaty, what a sensible idea.’ And, ‘I wonder why we have never had one before?’
Duckling bent down and picked up the chicken. She was immensely tired, ravenously hungry, and had no idea where she would sleep that night. But it would be somewhere near Pummel, Otte and Sooli. And tomorrow or the next day they would start to make their new lives. Their new stories.
In her arms, the chicken burbled, half asleep and dreaming of earwigs.
Hardly anyone saw the horse and cart leave Berren by the eastern road. They were all too bu
sy gaping at the place where the Strong-hold had been, and making the acquaintance of the Saaf, and wondering why they had believed in sabotage when it had so obviously been a curse.
If they had seen the cart, they would have thought it was nothing more interesting than a farmer returning home. In the early morning light, he appeared to be talking to himself.
‘It was the right thing to do,’ he said to no one in particular. ‘She will be better off without me. She will grieve for a little while – at least I hope she will – and then she will get on with her life.’
He twisted in his seat, appearing to speak to the sacks. ‘Whereas we have an entirely different future ahead of us, do we not? I think I shall go back to Nor – they will have forgotten me by now, so there will be no danger of imprisonment. And there were always rich pickings there. How do you feel about that, my friends?’
The sacks grunted in protest. One of them tried to wriggle, but was so tightly bound that it could hardly move.
The driver of the cart raised an eyebrow. ‘You do not fancy going to Nor? Very well, I shall drop you off somewhere else on the way. In fact—’ He tapped his teeth as if he was thinking, when really he had made up his mind some miles back. ‘In fact, I know just the place. Or rather, just the person. I shall deliver you into the tender hands of Old Lady Skint, just as you have delivered so many others.’
There were several muffled shrieks from the back of the cart.
‘Delighted, are you?’ said the driver. ‘I thought you would be.’ He raised his voice as if he was giving a speech. ‘Those who have profited from the slave trade shall become slaves themselves. And so justice is done …’
Then he laughed, and said in a normal voice, ‘What is the world coming to, when I am speaking of justice? Ha ha. Ha ha ha! Perhaps some of young Pummel’s honesty has rubbed off on me. Though I doubt it. A rogue I am, and a rogue I always shall be.’
And he clicked his tongue at the horse and drove into the sunrise.
