Secret Guardians

by Lian Tanner

  ‘Where are they going?’ demanded Krieg.

  This time the cat showed her claws. The man gabbled, ‘Back to their ship, I think. Down the mountain road, anyway. They’re in that cart, along with the old man. All goin’ off together.’

  Krieg removed the knife from his throat, saying, ‘You will not follow us.’

  ‘No fear,’ said the man, still eyeing the cat. And he backed away.

  But then he stopped. Ice was forming on the tips of his ears. A rime of frost crept across his hair. His eyes began to close.

  Duckling was the first to react. ‘Run!’ she shouted, and a second later everyone except the guard was out the door and racing down the mountain road, with no thought of weakness or hunger.

  The cold snapped at their heels. The air behind them streamed with ice. The land’s magic seemed to dim, as if a cloud had passed over it.

  Sooli heard the cry of a hawk, and an answering howl. Her heart shrank in her chest.

  The Harshman monster is on our trail!

  Duckling raced down the mountain with the chicken in her arms and that awful howl ringing in her ears.

  Beside her galloped the cat and the other two children. They were running as fast as they could, but Krieg outpaced them, rounding a corner and shouting, ‘I see them!’

  Somehow, Duckling found the strength to run faster. She rounded the same corner, and there was the cart, some way ahead but travelling slowly on that winding road. Old Lady Skint was driving and her men walked alongside. Duckling couldn’t see Otte, but Grandpa was sitting up nice and comfortable next to the slaver captain, still wearing Dame Swagger’s tattered dress.

  ‘What will we do – when we catch them?’ panted Pummel.

  ‘Grab – Otte,’ puffed Duckling.

  It sounded straightforward, but it wasn’t. The slavers would never give up such an important captive without a struggle. And what could an arms-mistress, three children, a cat and a chicken do against so many men?

  Especially with the Harshman after them.

  Duckling could already feel the touch of ice on her back. It nipped at her elbows. It slid into her bones. ‘He’s – coming,’ she panted.

  The cat hissed. The chicken turned herself around so she could see over Duckling’s shoulder, and began to squawk.

  ‘We’ll – fight him,’ puffed Pummel. ‘We mustn’t let him – get Otte.’

  Ahead of them, Old Lady Skint had seen her pursuers and was shouting at the horse, trying to make it go faster. One of her men grabbed hold of the bridle and urged the poor creature along, but it would not break out of a walk.

  Duckling began to hum the shiny little tune. It was jerky and breathless, but her breeze came all the same, and warmed her and her companions. They sped up again, but not for long. Despite the breeze, the ice was growing worse.

  ‘The Harshman feels – so much stronger than he was,’ panted Duckling. ‘D’you think – the raashk will still work – against him?’

  Pummel screwed up his face. ‘What?’

  Duckling repeated it, trying to make herself heard over the chicken’s squawking.

  ‘Don’t – know,’ said Pummel.

  ‘The old Bayams – would have known,’ said Sooli.

  ‘Good – for them,’ snarled Duckling, who didn’t care about the old Bayams. She wanted something she could do. Something that would save Otte. Something that would save all of them.

  ‘No, you do not – understand,’ panted Sooli. ‘The Bayams of Long Ago – they were the ones – who could summon the Fire Wind. My great-grandmother – tried many times – but she could not do it.’

  ‘Duckling – did it,’ said Pummel.

  Sooli shook her head. ‘There is something else – at work here – but I do not know – what it is.’

  Duckling’s arm tightened around the chicken, wishing it would stop making such a racket. Wishing she knew what the ‘something else’ was. Wishing she didn’t feel so helpless against the terrible cold.

  The cat had icicles on her tail now. Sooli’s black hair was dusted with frost, and so was Pummel’s. Duckling’s eyes were trying to close, even as she ran.

  We’re going to lose, she thought. We’re going to lose everything.

  The chicken knew exactly what the ‘something else’ was. She’d been trying to tell Wilygirl, but the child wouldn’t listen. It seemed that the only way the chicken could reach her was in dreams – and they had no time for dreams, not with disaster so close.

  She stopped squawking. ‘Thank – goodness – for that,’ puffed Wilygirl. And her grip loosened just the right amount.

  The chicken braced herself. Then, with a sudden wriggle and a mighty flapping of wings, she launched herself out of Wilygirl’s arms and towards Veryshinygirl.

  For a moment, she thought she wasn’t going to make it. As she flew through the air, a movement on the side of the road caught her eye, and her chicken self clawed its way to the surface, squawking, Earwig! Earwig!

  It took all her willpower to keep heading for Veryshinygirl. But she did it, with only a slight jink in the middle of her flight, so that she landed on the child’s shoulder rather than in her arms.

  ‘Dora – what are you – doing?’ cried Wilygirl.

  ‘It is – all right,’ puffed Veryshinygirl. ‘I will – carry her.’ And as she ran, she tried to lift the chicken off her shoulder.

  But the chicken dug in her claws and would not be lifted. This, she realised, was exactly where she needed to be.

  With a quiet mutter of hope, she leaned her feathered head against Veryshinygirl’s icy cheek. Then, as the three children raced down the mountain road, pursued by the chicken’s ancient enemy, she tried to pass on what she knew.

  I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to do. The dreadful chorus in Duckling’s head joined with the ice and the hunger and the tiredness and the fear, and tried to drag her to a halt.

  But she kept running, though it was more of a stagger now.

  Ahead of them, Arms-mistress Krieg was in trouble too. She stumbled and fell to her knees, and when she picked herself up she stumbled again.

  I don’t know what to do, sang the song of despair in Duckling’s head. I don’t—

  ‘Tent,’ croaked Sooli, out of nowhere.

  ‘What?’ said Duckling. She wanted to stop. More than just about anything in the world, she wanted to stop and rest. But she must not.

  ‘Tent,’ repeated Sooli, in a voice raw with salt and exhaustion. ‘Is there – a tent – in the cart?’

  ‘No – of course not,’ puffed Duckling. ‘What are you – talking about?’

  ‘Not – sure,’ croaked Sooli. On her shoulder, the chicken appeared to be asleep, with her head resting against Sooli’s.

  ‘Tar – paulin,’ said Pummel, who was staggering as badly as Duckling and Sooli. ‘Would that – do?’

  Sooli nodded. ‘I – think.’

  There was a tarpaulin in the cart – Grandpa had stolen it on the way south to keep the rain off. But what could Sooli possibly want it for?

  Duckling didn’t have the breath to ask. But the thought that the other girl might have an idea – a plan – gave her strength. Made her remember that she herself wasn’t completely helpless. If – no, when the Harshman caught up with them, she could summon the Fire Wind. That should hold him off for a little while at least.

  She managed to speed up a bit, and the other two children kept pace with her, though they were all struggling. Only the cat ran freely; only the cat had come out of the mine no worse than when she went in.

  And then at last they outpaced the ice. Duckling was still bone tired, but that small change was like a blessing. And when Arms-mistress Krieg stumbled again, it slowed her enough for the children to catch up with her, which felt like another blessing.

  Directly ahead of them, Old Lady Skint had changed her mind about hurrying, and was waiting for them. As they staggered up to the cart, Sooli gasped, ‘Find – the tarpaulin. D
o not – let them – tie you up.’

  And then they were scrambling up onto the back of the cart, and there was Otte, squeezed tight in a corner with bulging sacks all around him. He cried out when he spotted Krieg, and tried to crawl towards her. But Old Lady Skint shoved him back with one beefy arm.

  ‘Go! Go!’ cried Duckling, frantically scanning the cart for the tarpaulin, and not finding it. ‘The Harshman is coming!’

  Skint didn’t move. ‘So the liddle birdies ’ave returned. Flown right into the cage, without bein’ asked. It’s enough to make a body suspicious.’

  ‘Please, you have to hurry,’ gasped Duckling.

  Sooli dropped the chicken next to Otte. ‘Duckling is right! There is a monster coming after us. Please go.’

  Old Lady Skint peered back along the road. ‘There is somethin’ uncanny approachin’,’ she agreed. ‘We’d best get out of ’ere, shipmates, just as soon as we’ve made our guests welcome. Tie ’em up.’

  ‘No!’ cried Sooli.

  As the slavers advanced on the cart with ropes in their hands, Otte’s eyes went blank and he began to fumble in his empty potions bag.

  The cat spread her claws. Pummel snatched his staff from the bottom of the cart where he’d left it so many days ago, and placed himself in front of Otte. Krieg tore her sword out of Fiddle’s hand.

  The cart and its surrounds exploded into violence.

  Ugly, Mince and Bolter threw themselves at Krieg from different directions, their knives flashing. But exhausted as she was, Krieg was still an arms-mistress. Within seconds, Ugly had a long bleeding slash down the side of his face, Bolter was clutching his elbow, and Mince was rolling on the ground in agony.

  Meanwhile, Fiddle and another man lunged at Pummel, but he dodged their blows and fought back, jumping from sack to sack. Around his feet, the cat lashed out at hands and faces, and never missed her target.

  As Duckling continued her desperate search for the tarpaulin, Sooli mumbled to herself and picked bits of nothing out of the air, as if she was weaving invisible threads. Puddin’ tried to grab her, and so did two others, but at the last minute they all swerved aside and ended up somewhere else entirely.

  In the front of the cart, Grandpa’s fingers were inching towards his cane.

  But there was never any doubt of the outcome. The slavers were too many – and besides, they had pistols. Once they remembered to draw them, the fight was over.

  And Duckling still hadn’t found the tarpaulin.

  The slavers picked up their ropes and advanced on the cart once more, with murder in their eyes. Duckling looked around one last time – and saw the tarpaulin where it had been all along. Next to Otte. Underneath the chicken.

  She dived towards it on hands and knees, but she was too late. Mince put his boot on her foot to hold her in place. The chicken squawked. The cat crawled onto the tarpaulin.

  Mince dragged Duckling into a sitting position and slung a rope around her left wrist. He reached for her right wrist …

  And the cold hit them like an avalanche.

  From one moment to the next, everyone in and around the cart froze where they stood. Duckling tried to hum, but no sound came. She could see the Harshman striding towards them with his feet barely touching the ground. Above him, the wings of his hawk blotted out the sun.

  The only one not completely immobilised by the bitter cold was the chicken. She was trying to make her way to Duckling, her neck outstretched, her movements slow and awkward.

  But Duckling didn’t have time for the chicken, not now. She was trying to summon the Fire Wind.

  She couldn’t say the right word aloud, so she named it in her mind, as she had done in her dreams. Lodosh. She hummed in her mind too, making that shiny little tune as bright and real as she could.

  Nothing happened.

  She tried again.

  And again.

  And again, with every part of her heart and soul. It worked in the mine, she told herself. It has to work now.

  But the Fire Wind did not come.

  Her witchery had failed, and the Harshman was almost upon them.

  The Harshman clanked towards them, his iron teeth clattering, and Duckling’s mind filled up with ice. It swept away the name of the Fire Wind. It made her eyes so heavy that she could barely keep them open.

  Old Lady Skint was already asleep and snoring. Grandpa was sliding down in his seat. Even the chicken was beginning to stiffen, from the tip of her comb to the claws on her strong yellow legs.

  I’m not – giving up, thought Duckling, yawning. I must – summon – the Fire Wind.

  Back in the depths of the mine, she had called it without meaning to. So why hadn’t it come to her this time? What was different?

  I said its name – just like now. I was scared and angry – like now. I had a feather in my hair – like now.

  But something must have been different. What was it?

  A beak pecked feebly at her hand. The chicken was trying—

  The chicken, thought Duckling. I was holding the chicken!

  She couldn’t move her head, but she could move her eyes. She looked down at the chicken, and tried to urge her closer. The bird seemed to understand, because with an agonised squawk, she half-jumped, half-fell onto Duckling’s lap.

  Duckling’s head cleared. She remembered the name of the Fire Wind.

  Beside her, something had changed for Pummel too. His hand – clutching the raashk – was rising. Sooli leaned towards them, weaving invisible threads.

  The Harshman’s bony fingers touched the back of the cart, and the wood splintered and broke. The hawk plummeted from the sky, its claws outstretched. On the side of the road, bushes shrivelled and died. The whole of Neuhalt seemed to hold its breath.

  Duckling could feel the heat of the raashk now. She could feel the chicken’s feathers, with the ice melting off them. She could feel something drawing her and Pummel and Sooli together, so that they almost felt like one person.

  As the Harshman reached for Otte, Duckling spoke the name of the Fire Wind. ‘Lodosh!’

  The flames sprang up so quick and strong that the Harshman and his hawk were taken unawares. With a hoarse cry, they lurched backwards, and the flames followed them, forming a barrier between them and the cart.

  The bitter cold that had seized the cart vanished. Arms-mistress Krieg scooped up Otte, who had come out of his trance and was trying to take the chicken from Duckling.

  But Duckling could feel the power coming from the chicken now, and knew she must keep hold of the bird or they would all be lost.

  Because the Harshman and his hawk were not yet beaten.

  Those precious flames were disappearing much faster than they should have done. The Harshman ground the last of them under his foot. Bits of him were singed, but he had taken no great harm.

  He opened his mouth and growled, ‘Give … Me … The … Heir.’

  Pummel raised the raashk, ready to throw it.

  ‘Wait!’ hissed Sooli. ‘Duckling, the tarpaulin. Unfold it! Hold onto it!’

  The Harshman strode towards them, shoving Scuttle and Ugly out of his way like blades of grass. ‘GIVE … ME … THE … HEIR,’ he roared. And now his voice was like a warning bell, something huge and old that is only rung when the world is about to end.

  ‘What now, Sooli?’ cried Duckling, clinging to the unfolded tarpaulin. ‘What do I do?’

  ‘Summon the Grandfather Wind.’ Sooli’s eyes were wild, but her voice was sure. ‘Call him to us!’ She rolled onto the tarpaulin and looked around for the others. ‘Krieg! Otte! Come and sit here. Pummel, bring the cat!’

  ‘What Grandfather Wind?’ shouted Duckling. ‘What’s its name?’

  ‘Seleeg! It’s Seleeg!’

  Duckling took a firmer grip on the chicken. ‘Grandpa!’ she shouted. ‘Quick!’ Then she squeezed her eyes shut, and cried, with her heart in her mouth, ‘Seleeg!’

  The Grandfather Wind swept down on them like a hurricane, growling their name
s. It grabbed the tarpaulin and shook it. It dropped Old Lady Skint on top of Fiddle and turned the Harshman around so that he faced the other way.

  Then it burrowed under the tarpaulin and lifted it up, up, up into the air, with Duckling and the chicken, Otte, Arms-mistress Krieg, Sooli, Lord Rump, Pummel and the cat clinging for their lives.

  Inch by inch, Duckling dragged herself into the middle of the tarpaulin. The others copied her. Arms-mistress Krieg was shaking her head in disbelief. Otte’s face was as white as his mice. Even Grandpa, who hardly ever showed his true feelings, was amazed.

  ‘We’re flying,’ whispered Duckling, and the words were torn from her mouth and scattered across the sky.

  But Pummel knew what she had said. So did Sooli. Her eyes were bright with joy and wonder, which made her look like a completely different person. She mouthed something, but her voice was torn away too, and so was Grandpa’s when he tried to speak.

  Duckling wondered if there was a way they could talk to each other. There were so many questions that needed to be answered.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and thought the name of the Grandfather Wind. Seleeg. ‘Can we have a quiet space around us, please?’ she whispered. ‘Is that possible?’

  For a moment, she thought she’d got it horribly wrong. The tarpaulin seemed to collapse under her, and they tumbled through the air with terrified shouts.

  But before they had fallen too far, the Wind gathered them up again. Somehow, in the gathering, the chicken ended up on Sooli’s lap instead of Duckling’s. And there was a still, small space around them where everyone could hear each other.

  Sooli was gazing at the chicken as if she truly saw the bird for the first time. ‘It is you,’ she whispered. ‘I can feel it now. But who are you? How can you be a part of this?’ She turned to Otte. ‘She is your chicken, yes? Where did you get her?’

  Otte squeezed his eyes shut, as if he still could not quite believe he had escaped from both Old Lady Skint and the Harshman. Then he opened them again and said, ‘I found her in the Strong-hold kitchens. She had hurt her wing and they were going to kill her and eat her. I did not know there was anything special about her.’