Accidental Heroes

by Lian Tanner

  She heard him hiss, ‘Duckling!’ behind her. But by then she was out in the bailey and racing towards the Keep.

  Pummel woke with a start. He was lying on the floor of the Young Margrave’s bedchamber, and the doorway was crammed with people, all of them staring at him in horror.

  He picked up his staff and stumbled to his feet, feeling as if he’d been trampled and left for dead. Why were all these people here? What had happened?

  Arms-mistress Krieg pushed her way through the crowd. ‘What have you done with the Heir?’ she demanded. ‘And Otte?’

  ‘What?’ said Pummel. ‘Nothing! I—’ He stared at the rumpled bed, and remembered the ice. His belly tightened. ‘The Harshman! He took them, he took both of them!’

  A man in the doorway said, ‘The Harshman? Who is that?’

  ‘The – the legend,’ stammered Pummel. ‘Iron teeth and ice. And the hawk—’

  The same man sneered. ‘You must think we are fools, to tell us such stories.’

  ‘No, it’s true! Otte tied himself to the Young Margrave—’

  ‘Did you search his room?’ someone else shouted.

  ‘I did.’ The arms-mistress stared at Pummel, stone-faced. ‘The petal of a stink rose lay on the floor beneath his mattress.’

  She wrenched the staff from his hand and touched the end of it. ‘Blood,’ she announced, holding up a red-smeared finger. ‘And blood on the Young Margrave’s pillow also.’

  Pummel gaped at her. ‘What?’

  ‘So, you killed one of the guards and drugged the other with stink rose,’ said the arms-mistress.

  ‘He drugged himself too,’ cried a voice from the doorway. ‘So he would appear innocent.’

  ‘No!’ said Pummel. ‘I didn’t. I wouldn’t.’ He could see the raashk lying on the floor near the bed, and wondered why it hadn’t come back to his hand. He remembered throwing it, and thinking he had hit his target. But he must have missed. The most important moment of his life, and he’d missed.

  ‘Please,’ he said. ‘We have to look for them. We have to find them before the Harshman—’

  But now the watchers were surging towards him. One of them knocked him flat. Another hauled him to his feet again, but not before Pummel had managed to grab hold of the raashk.

  ‘Take him to the Great Chamber,’ said Arms-mistress Krieg. ‘And wake the Margravine. I will search for the Young Margrave. And for Otte.’

  ‘For their bodies, more like,’ growled one of the men who held Pummel.

  ‘Yes,’ said Arms-mistress Krieg. ‘For their bodies.’

  Duckling stood at the back of the crowd and watched them drag Pummel away.

  I’m too late, she thought.

  She dared not rely on Grandpa’s ‘arrangement’. What if something went wrong? What if Pummel was executed for something he hadn’t done?

  Grandpa would be upset, of course. But he’d be upset because he’d lost the boy who could walk through walls. It wouldn’t be anything to do with Pummel himself.

  She waited until the passage was clear, then crept into the Young Margrave’s bedchamber. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for – evidence, maybe. Some way she could prove that it was the Harshman who’d taken Otte and the Heir, and not Pummel.

  She ignored the blood on the pillow, which anyone could’ve put there. She ignored the lingering smell of stink-roses too – if it hadn’t killed Pummel, it wouldn’t kill her.

  She saw a patch of water and bent down to inspect it.

  Something tapped her hand.

  ‘Yikes!’ squeaked Duckling, jumping backwards. Then she saw the spotted paw, and the golden eyes.

  ‘Harsssssshhhman,’ said the cat, dabbing at the patch of water. ‘Toook boysss.’

  ‘Do you know where he’s taken them?’

  ‘Noooo.’

  ‘Do you think he’s killed them?’

  ‘Yeees,’ said the cat, flexing her claws. ‘Hunter. Like meeee.’

  A mouse crept out from under the bed. Then another, and another, followed by a very worried-looking chicken.

  Duckling found herself wanting to help them.

  I’m going soft, she thought. If Grandpa knew I was thinking like this he’d laugh himself silly.

  But right now she didn’t care about Grandpa. If Pummel was free, he’d be trying to find out what had happened to Otte and the Heir. He’d be trying to help the chicken and anyone else who needed it.

  She began to hum the shiny tune. The breeze rose. The eyes of the chicken grew huge, and she looked to one side of Duckling, then to the other, as if she could see something moving. The cat purred approval.

  Duckling wasn’t sure what to do next. If she just sent the breeze off, it’d bring back whatever it found nearby. And that wasn’t enough.

  She remembered telling the breeze to skitch ’em during the hunt. She remembered the dogs following the cat’s scent.

  Still humming, she dived for the straw mattress in the corner, and held Otte’s hard little pillow up to the breeze. At the same time, she pictured the boy in her mind, just in case that helped. Go find! she thought. Go find!

  The breeze hesitated as if it didn’t quite understand.

  Go find! Quickly!

  The breeze whisked away from her. Duckling looked at the mice and the chicken. ‘Why aren’t you searching for them too? We need all the help we can get.’

  Then she turned and ran.

  THE TRIAL

  Otte woke to utter darkness. When he tried to roll over, he bumped into Brun.

  ‘Mnh?’ grunted Brun, and he woke up too.

  At first, neither of them spoke. The Strong-hold had always been a dangerous place, especially for the Heir and his best friend. It was wise to be cautious until they knew what was happening.

  As quietly as he could, Otte felt around for a candle. But there was no candle. Instead, he touched something that felt like a bony foot.

  He snatched his hand away and tried to sit up. Above him, in the darkness, were two burning eyes.

  He remembered what had happened.

  ‘Brun,’ he breathed in his friend’s ear. ‘The Harshman has taken us.’

  He heard a stifled gasp, followed by Brun feeling around for his knife – the one he kept by his bedside in case of assassins.

  But there was no knife either.

  Somewhere above their heads, an awful voice said, ‘I … Am … Here …To … Kill …The … Heir.’ The words sounded like stone grinding stone. ‘Which … Of … You…Is …The … Heir?’

  Otte was shivering so hard – from both fear and cold – that he wasn’t sure if he could speak. But he managed to say, ‘I am the Heir.’

  Brun elbowed him in the ribs. ‘No. I am the Heir.’

  It was not that either of them wanted to die. But years ago, as soon as they were old enough to understand, Arms-mistress Krieg had sat them down and said, very sternly, ‘You are the Heir and the Heir’s Friend, and you must watch out for each other. You must stand together against those who would harm Neuhalt. You must live with honour and truth.’

  Truth was a slippery thing in the Strong-hold, and it was not always easy to see where honour lay. But both of them had done their best, just as they would do their best now.

  The voice spoke again. ‘You … Cannot … Both … Be … Heir.’

  Otte wondered if those burning eyes could see in the dark. If not, maybe he could secretly untie the rope around their wrists. Then Brun might be able to get away.

  Except Brun wouldn’t go without him. In fact, Brun would probably throw himself at the invisible figure and try to fight, and Otte wouldn’t be able to help him. Not with weapons or strength.

  But there are other ways to fight.

  ‘Who – who are you?’ he asked.

  ‘I … Am …’ The voice trailed off.

  Otte thought he heard the rustle of feathers somewhere above his head. Was the hawk here too?

  He tried to drag his thoughts into some sort of order. ‘I – I know
who you are,’ he said. ‘And who you were.’

  There was a deathly silence. Then the voice said, ‘Who … Am … I?’

  ‘Y-you’re the Harshman.’

  ‘Who …Was … I?’

  ‘You w-were the very first Margrave of Neuhalt,’ said Otte. ‘H-Hemmer the Harsh.’

  ‘Really?’ whispered Brun.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ whispered Otte. ‘Sshh!’

  Louder, he said, ‘Which means that the Heir is – is your descendant. Your heir. So you should not k-kill us.’

  The Harshman’s mind worked slowly, but it did work. ‘While … I … Live … I … Do … Not … Need … An… Heir.’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘And … I … Intend … To … Live … Forever.’

  By the time Duckling hurried into the Great Chamber, a thousand candles were alight, and the Margravine was on her throne with the Grafine standing behind her.

  Neither of them seemed moved by the news of the Heir’s disappearance. Only the Margravine’s finger, tapping the hilt of her sword in a fierce rhythm, gave away her thoughts.

  Pummel stood below her, held so tightly by two burly soldiers that his feet barely touched the floor. His face was pale in the candlelight; he licked his lips.

  Arms-mistress Krieg was nowhere to be seen.

  To Duckling, slipping through the crowd with the raashk in her hand, the whole chamber felt as if it was packed with explosive devices and about to go bang. The grafs and grafines muttered furiously to each other. The lean dogs snarled. The air sizzled with fury.

  The Margravine fixed her eyes on Pummel. ‘Where is my son? And Otte?’

  ‘The Harshman t-took them, Your Grace,’ said Pummel. ‘I mean, the man from the legend. Iron t-teeth and ice where he walks. He took both of them.’

  There was a hiss of disbelief from the body of the chamber. Someone shouted, ‘Do you think we are children, to believe such stories?’

  Someone else shouted, ‘Murderer!’

  The Margravine looked over her shoulder and said something to the Grafine, who whispered back to her.

  Duckling could hardly breathe. She wanted to dash forward shouting, ‘It was the Harshman. Let him go!’

  But the warier part of her (the part that had survived dozens of Grandpa’s Schemes) told her that there were currents here she didn’t understand, and that she was better off waiting for the breeze to come back. Then she might have something to say.

  ‘We should all be looking for them, Your Grace,’ said Pummel.

  Someone behind Duckling shouted, ‘He has probably thrown the bodies down one of the deep wells.’

  Someone else cried, ‘We could search for a year and never find them.’

  Duckling craned her neck, trying to see who’d spoken, but the crowd was too thick. Too angry. Too sure that they already knew what had happened.

  Where are you, breeze? she thought. Come back! Quickly!

  But what if it came back with nothing? What if it hadn’t understood her instructions? What if it went looking for small hard pillows instead of Otte?

  It was then that Grandpa put in an appearance, sailing through the crowd like a wide-bottomed boat. He looked worried. He looked apologetic. He looked furious.

  And underneath it all, where no one but Duckling could see, he looked pleased, as if the Scheme was back on track at last.

  ‘Your Grace,’ he cried, ‘I am here to beg for mercy.’

  Duckling could guess what was coming. Grandpa loved dramatic moments. He loved holding the temper of a crowd in his hand, and turning it whichever way suited him.

  Breeze, where are you?

  ‘Mercy?’ said the Margravine, as if she’d never heard the word before and wasn’t sure what it meant.

  The crowd around Duckling edged forward a couple of steps. The tooth in her hand wriggled so hard that she almost dropped it.

  ‘I found this boy myself, Your Grace,’ said Grandpa, pointing his cane at Pummel. ‘I checked his background; I gave him a rigorous medical examination. I believed that he was completely trustworthy.’ He thumped his cane on the floor and turned his head to one side so that the candlelight caught his best profile. ‘And, Your Grace, I still believe it.’

  The hope in Pummel’s face was pitiful to see.

  ‘He has no reason to harm the Heir,’ continued Grandpa. ‘He is nothing but a simple country lad, and I can prove it. I have here—’

  His right hand slipped inside his waistcoat and extracted a piece of folded paper. ‘I have a letter that the boy wrote to his mother. I meant to post it before we came to the Strong-hold, but it slipped my mind. I have not read it myself, Your Grace, but I am sure it speaks of nothing but loyalty and simple country matters.’

  He passed the letter to one of the Margravine’s guards, who passed it to the Margravine, then dragged an iron candelabra closer to the throne.

  The Margravine unfolded the letter and began to read. Pummel smiled at Grandpa, and mouthed, ‘Thank you!’

  Grandpa smiled back, as if he really was the sort of friend that a boy in trouble needed.

  And suddenly Duckling found herself hating the old man. He doesn’t care about anyone except himself. If the price was high enough he’d probably sell me too.

  She gripped the raashk so tightly that it dug into the palm of her hand, and shuffled forward a little more.

  As the Margravine read Pummel’s letter, a frown touched her face. The grafs and grafines shifted their feet uneasily, trying to work out which way things were going. Some of them put their hands on their swords. Others bent down and murmured to their dogs. The candlelight flickered off their faces, until they looked as strange and furious as the gargoyles that decorated the Keep.

  What if Grandpa’s wrong about what happens next? thought Duckling. What if they drag Pummel straight to the chopping block?

  The Margravine looked up and fixed her eyes on Pummel. ‘This is truly your letter?’

  Don’t answer, thought Duckling. Tell her you want to read it first.

  But Pummel, in his innocence, nodded. ‘Yes, Your Grace.’

  ‘You are sure?’

  ‘Yes, Your Grace.’

  The Grafine raised an eyebrow. The Margravine handed the letter back to the guard, who passed it to Grandpa.

  ‘Does that clarify the matter, Your Grace?’ he asked.

  ‘It does,’ said the Margravine. ‘Read it, Lord Rump. Read it aloud.’

  Grandpa made a huge production of it. First he held the letter close to his eyes and peered at it, then he held it at arm’s length and tried again. He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket for his reading glasses. He put them on his nose, took them off and cleaned them.

  The guard moved the candelabra towards him.

  ‘When you are ready, Lord Rump,’ said the Margravine in a hard voice.

  ‘I am ready now, Your Grace.’ And with a flourish, Grandpa raised the letter to the light and began to read aloud.

  At first, his voice was full of confidence.

  ‘Dear Ma,’ he read. ‘I hope this finds you well. How are the calves? Did you get someone to help you with the milking?’

  ‘You see?’ he said to the whole chamber. ‘Cows.’

  ‘Continue,’ said the Margravine.

  ‘Where was I? Ah, yes.’ Grandpa cleared his throat again. ‘Things are working out well, Ma. They got off to a bit of a rocky start, but I’m all right now.’

  He beamed at Pummel. ‘My boy, your innocence shines out of every word.’

  ‘Continue,’ said the Margravine.

  ‘—all right now. I have found a man called Lord Rump, who does not know about the you-know-what. He can get me a job in the Strong-hold, just as you and I planned a month ago—’ Grandpa’s voice faltered.

  ‘But Your Grace,’ said Pummel, ‘that’s not what I wrote—’

  ‘Be quiet,’ snapped the Margravine.

  ‘—a month ago, when the Saffies gave us the money. It won’t be easy, Ma, but as you know I am d
etermined and strong. Tell the Saffies that I won’t let them down. With that money they gave us, Ma, we’ll be able to keep the farm.’

  Duckling had to admit that Grandpa did slowly dawning horror extremely well.

  Everyone around him could see the precise moment when he stopped believing in Pummel’s innocence, and realised that the lad had betrayed him.

  It was far more convincing than the bewildered expression on Pummel’s face.

  The dogs began to snarl again. One of the grafs slapped his hand against his barrel chest, like the slow beat of a war drum. The grafine beside him stamped her feet.

  ‘But that’s not what I wrote,’ cried Pummel. ‘Someone must’ve—’

  Grandpa turned on him. ‘Oh, treacherous boy! To think that I took you into my own home; I put my honour in your hands. And how did you repay me? With villainy! With murder!’

  ‘No!’ cried Pummel. ‘Lord Rump, I didn’t—’

  ‘Yes. You. Did,’ said Grandpa. He swung back to the Margravine, and his expression changed from disgust to humility. ‘Your Grace, I cannot begin to tell you how sorry I am for introducing this viper into the Stronghold. I fear I am too trusting. And because of that, the Heir is lost.’

  He fought back his tears. ‘Poor lad. So brave. So handsome. Unlike this worm of a boy beside me! Take him out of my sight, I beg you, Your Grace. Send him to the dungeons to think about his crimes for a day or two. Then execute him. Make him pay for what he has done.’

  Now, Duckling saw the slowly dawning horror on Pummel’s face. ‘Execute me?’ he cried. ‘But I didn’t do it. Someone must have changed my letter. Someone—’

  He stared at the paper in Grandpa’s hand. Then he stared at Grandpa.

  And he knew.

  Duckling could see it. The disbelief. The dismay. The realisation that his friends were not his friends.

  She wanted to grab hold of him and say, ‘Pummel, it was all Grandpa. I didn’t have anything to do with it, I promise!’

  Except that would be a lie. And there had been far too many lies already.

  Pummel turned away from Lord Rump, and spoke directly to the Margravine. ‘Your Grace, please believe me. Otte was my friend. I swear I haven’t hurt him or the Heir.’