The Huntress: Storm

by Sarah Driver

  ‘Sound advice,’ declares Stag finally. ‘It has been heeded. In light of these beliefs, the rancorous old mother will expect to see an amber jewel upon the body at the time of burial. If you can win me a moment alone in here, just before the ceremony, I will put another stone in its place. A beautiful piece of amber, very costly. No one will know any different.’

  ‘Why not do it now?’ asks a warrior.

  ‘I have not yet received the amber,’ he replies, face tightening with impatience.

  One of the warriors nods, slowly. ‘That might work. As long as the old grandmother believes the powerful stone is accompanying her son to the otherworld.’

  ‘How do we know it is a Storm-Opal as you say?’ says the grey-bearded man, suddenly.

  Stag steps through the curtain, towards the Chieftain’s casket. The guards shift uneasily, and one draws back his lips to show his fangs. Stag emerges, rubbing the Land-Opal tenderly with his thumbs.

  Ugh! My palms grow sweaty.

  ‘Now,’ he says, looking round at the warriors. ‘I suspect that you wouldn’t truly like to learn what can be done with the stone, for the truth may frighten you and leave your tails twitching.’

  ‘Try us,’ barks grey-beard. The other guards glance warily between him and Stag.

  Stag turns the Opal in the lamplight. Little bolts of amber crackle through the stone. Stag grins, hissing through the gaps in his teeth. My heart begins to pound.

  The tent walls quake. The ground shakes beneath our feet. ‘Don’t!’ I beg, in a sudden, broken yelp.

  My voice is swallowed by the filthy air, unheeded. My hands make fists.

  Stag mutters under his breath – words that hoop round and round like a spell.

  The grey-bearded guard that doubted the stone clutches the arms of his chair. Amber light lashes from the Opal, and delves into the Fangtooth’s chest, rummaging around inside his ribcage. Shock splays his face apart.

  Stag’s eyes shine. ‘It’s working! Oh, of course it is, of course it is,’ he rants. ‘Something this sacred has to make itself manifest. Don’t you want to be part of this power?’ he calls to the others.

  A blood-shivering shriek tears from the doubter’s mouth. Then he falls silent and the tentacles of light pull back from his chest, holding onto a wriggling slip of silver. The man slumps sideways, his eyes open but glazed.

  When the light pulls back towards the stone, it’s pulling the shape of a man, but the man is only a shadow.

  Find the scattered Storm-Opals before an enemy finds them, and uses them to wield dark power.

  The shadow is sucked inside the Opal.

  ‘An elixiration is the proper name for a spirit-draining,’ says Stag gently. ‘This is what we shall be able to do to countless creatures. And when we recover the other jewels, the power shall swell to claim the world – there will be no limit to the size of our soulless armies.’

  ‘Power untold,’ mutters one of the dazed warriors.

  Another wears a fixed look on his face, rubbing his arms like he can’t get warm. ‘Never,’ he mutters to himself. ‘Never in my long days have I . . .’

  The drained Fangtooth shudders on the floor, gulping for breath like he’s choking.

  ‘Servant – rise,’ commands Stag, watching him coldly. He snaps his fingers.

  The man blinks, then stands in one fluid movement, arms limp by his sides, face expressionless.

  ‘Kill them,’ breathes Stag, eyes glittering.

  Shock skins my eyes.

  The soulless Fangtooth’s swords flash, one in each hand, as he steps swiftly towards the others.

  ‘What are you doing?’ demands one. The other shrieks, scrambling out of his chair.

  ‘Stop,’ commands Stag, and the swords still in an instant.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ asks the guard that’s standing up. He raises a trembling finger to point at Stag.

  I skirt around the edge of the room as Stag paces in front of them. ‘We will elixirate great armies,’ he says. ‘A whole village at a time. Powerful warriors that will stop at nothing, feel nothing, be completely controllable.’ He takes no notice of me. A wide grin stretches his face as he leans down and puts the Opal back on the Chieftain’s body.

  . . . before an enemy finds them, and uses them to wield dark power . . .

  He’s done it. He’s worked out how to wield the dark power. I stay glued to the shadows as they gab long into the night about their plans. I’ve got no clue what I’m meant to do if the wine runs dry, and my hands shake when I pour it, but I manage not to spill any.

  Finally, the warriors leave the tent. Stag sits alone by the fire, grinning as the light plays on his face. I edge towards the doors, squeeze through and start running through the snow.

  A drum begins to beat, waking me from a dead-heavy slumber. I raise my head, then groan softly as what happened last night floods into my brain. I feel sick to the marrow when I think about Stag leeching out that man’s spirit.

  The drum beats louder and the rhythm changes, jolting the thoughts right out of my head. I stand up, pulling on my boots, and take the cup of hot juice that Old One passes to me. ‘What’s going on out there?’

  She grins at me, then scuttles over to where Sparrow’s sitting. She starts brushing his hair; copper now that she’s dyed it as part of his disguise.

  I tut. Outside, feet crunch through the snow. Once Sparrow’s brushed and cloaked, Old One straps snowshoes to her feet and hurries us outside.

  I chatter over my shoulder to Thaw to stay out of sight, knowing she’ll try and follow to protect me.

  ThawknowThawknow, she grumbles.

  Old One’s haste and the drumming makes me think there must be some kind of Moonlands ritual or celebration. ‘Where we going?’ I ask, even though she don’t understand me and I wouldn’t be able to understand her reply.

  Sparrow trots next to her, holding her hand. She clucks to him and he grins up at her – neither understanding the other. I roll my eyes. He always charms the full-growns. I hunch after them through the biting snow, towards a central fire-pit built in a space between strings of chattering teeth. A group of Tribesfolk bang drums painted with polar dogs.

  A girl sits in the middle of a group of full-growns and kids. The Chieftain-mother’s with them, and she’s got a sliver of silver in her fist.

  Pliers.

  The Chieftain-mother grabs the girl’s jaw and pulls her mouth open. Her wide eyes shine, making me think of some wild, frighted creature. Tears begin to roll down her face, and though the old woman commands her to stop crying, all she does is cry harder.

  My feet flood with fire and I leap towards them – I’m gonna get her safe – but Old One grabs my scruff and hauls me backwards. She puts a finger to her neck and draws it across, keeping her eyes on mine, and I don’t need to know her tribe-tongue to catch her meaning.

  But before I can blink again the girl’s bottom front teeth are wrenched out of her mouth, together with sky-splitting screams and a chinful of blood. Somewhere in the ghostly snowscape beyond the circle, polar dogs clamour into a frenzy. The Chieftain-mother towers over the girl.

  A group of men lead a snarling polar dog towards her. The dog’s still a pup, but he’s already huge. Terror squeezes my chest.

  But the loudest terror ripples from the dog, as he senses a threat.

  Blood-stink fright-pup ripriprip. Girl-pup lost crunchers. Whywhy? Whatprowlinghere?

  The group crouch by the dog. One holds his legs, another his body, another his head. They force his mouth open.

  No! Noleavealonehelppackmateshelphelpfightbitedangerhurting touchfurdangerhelp!

  The sickening fright lurches into me, desperate beast-chatter snagging hooks into my mind. Then I’m pitching forwards into the body of the polar dog. I put out my hands but they’re spirit-silver and they push straight through the dog’s neck and then I’m blinking, looking out through his eyes.

  Bigtallroundjawsallaroundflappyjawsbitingeyeswantto hurtmewhywhy
why? I ask, thrashing in the two-legs’ grip, trying to rip my muzzle free.

  Old fierceness bends close, claw of silver in paw. Holding my head – snap, bite! Can’t get away, not safe, not safe! Silver claw in my mouth. Cold, hard, hurting. Waves of pain smash into me, knocking me out of the polar dog and back into my own body, in time to watch as the Chieftain-mother straightens up, a long, curved fang gripped in her pliers. The dog squirms and whimpers, and I press my hands over my ears but the beast-chatter rattles around my brain, too strong to do anything about ’cept curl my toes inside my boots and bite my lips. My head swims. Old One grips my arm, heart-worry scrawled across her face.

  ‘Bone glue,’ barks the Chieftain-mother, as the girl trembles in the snow, retching, wiping her mouth, whimpering. Some of the other kids call out to her, in throaty yelps and grunts that I can’t understand. It’s like they’re yelling heart-strength to her. Their faces are etched with fear and jealousy and awe, all mixed up.

  ‘You know the rules! Trade-tongue or nothing!’ orders the old woman.

  ‘Chieftain never this bad,’ mutters someone.

  ‘The Chieftain is dead,’ she yelps, eyes shining with grief.

  The kids fall silent, so the polar dog’s terrified whimpers drift on the air.

  She bends down and cups the girl’s chin. Then she takes a wooden stick heaped with sticky clear jelly, shoves it in her mouth and then presses the fangs into her weeping sockets. The girl can’t close her lips around the fangs, but the blood begins to slow.

  Then a Tribesman lifts the polar dog pup into the air. His legs kick. He thrashes. Blood is clotted across his fur.  Outawayrunrunrunsnapgetoffoffoffnotmothernotmyscruff !

  The knife finds his throat before I can blink and the punch of terror and snuffing out of beast-chatter floods my brain so painfully that my vision blackens and my hearing fades into a distant ringing and I lose grip of my body as it falls into the snow, a dead weight.

  Floating, dark space. Hurttouchwhyriptearhelphurtsinmouth.

  Loping through the black sky and sniffing the stars.

  I gasp awake into a crinkled brown map that I realise is Old One’s face, inches from my own. ‘Aagh,’ she grunts, squatting low, bracing her hands on her thighs.

  I cover my face with my hands. ‘Back off,’ I croak groggily.

  Sparrow’s stubby fingers jab into my side. ‘You awake, stinker? What happened to you ?’ In his other hand is a little stack of bloodcakes and he takes a huge bite while I shake my head, struggling to grasp words.

  Old One shuffles off to poke the ashes of her fire. She starts up her singing, all warbly-throaty. I watch as Sparrow reaches for a heap of white fur lying by the fire.

  It’s the dead dog from the tooth-pulling ceremony. The memory floods back to me. ‘Sparrow, that pup is dead,’ I tell him softly.

  He tuts at me. ‘I know that, stupid!’

  I crouch groggily next to him and trace the polar dog’s spine with a fingertip. Sparrow’s tears drip into its fur. A dusky purple glow is gathering in his palms – I can see it shining through the fur he’s clutching.

  I glare at the lightning and wrinkle my nose against the charred stink. I’m about to pull the pup away from him when Old One rests her cool, soft hand on mine.

  Sparrow’s lightning brightens. The pup’s body is stiff and his white tongue lolls from his mouth. The tent creaks around us in the wind. A spark ripples from Sparrow’s left hand to his right, straight through the pup. And by all the gods, I swear the pup’s leg twitches. Just like what he said happened with that frog.

  ‘Sparr—’

  ‘Shhhhhhushup!’ growls Old One, startling me.

  The purple spark zips onto the iced ends of the pup’s fur, until every strand glitters. Then his front paw kicks out, as though from a dog-dream.

  My hands dig into the thick reindeer skin under me.

  Sparrow sniffles. ‘You’ll be alright, pup-pup.’

  The same leg jerks, then another.

  I can feel the magic, thrumming in the air. Feel like I could reach out and peel the edges of this world away, uncloaking the stew of the dream-world simmering underneath.

  Under Sparrow’s hand, the dog’s ribcage rises, falls. Once, twice. Then the breath comes, regular as oar strokes, but I feel like my own has stopped. The lightning is a flow, like I’ve never seen before – a gentle shimmering as Sparrow whispers to the pup.

  Shock scrapes my scalp backwards.

  The beast’s chest flickers again and again into a rhythm as Sparrow’s lightning beats his heart back to life.

  ‘Gods!’ I stutter.

  The pup’s eyes clear of death and snowflakes, and he blinks. The blood in his fur slurps back into his body and the ice starts to drip from him as his blood heats.

  Sparrow falls backwards, his lightning fizzling out with a sharp, dry-sounding sputter. The polar dog pup limps towards him and licks his cheek, uttering a curious yip.

  Knowyouknowyoumother?Sleeplongtoolongpackmatesfled dreamsofpainwheregone?

  ‘He brought a dead thing back to life.’ I turn to face Old One. She gifts me a face-splitting grin. I shake my head. ‘But – he brought a dead thing back . . .’ I trail off.

  The polar dog pup limps around the tent, confusion bunching his fur into spines. Old One ushers him back towards Sparrow, who lets him smell his hand and then strokes him calm. ‘It’s alright, dog! You’re safe with us. We won’t let anyone hurt you.’

  Wherewherewheream? He licks Sparrow’s palm and turns to stare at me.

  Old One’s tent, I tell him, trying to push against the dizziness crashing over me.  She’s a good two-legs.

  ‘Sparrow – what if dead things don’t want to come back to life?’ My voice is tight, clamped in the arms of fear.

  He fixes me with raging eyes. ‘Why wouldn’t they?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ I snap. ‘I just – I mean, how do we know creatures that come back are gonna be the same as before?’

  ‘Why’ve they got to be the same?’ he asks, puzzled.

  I sigh through my nose, watching the dog. It’s already fallen asleep next to Sparrow, sides rising and falling gently. Its face looks peaceful enough.

  Dream-slow, I feel an idea begin to stir.

  Later, I spy in the Chieftain’s tent again, trying to steal snippets from Stag and his plotters about their plans for the Opal and the Chieftain’s burial, which I learn is coming after one more sleep. Stag has the amber to replace with the Opal, and he’s gonna do it tonight.

  My idea swirls behind my eyes, growing brighter and more fully shaped. We have to be ready. There will only be one chance.

  Back in Old One’s tent, the pup sleeps, curled under the hem of Sparrow’s cloak. When it wakes it gets restless and whines in a way that churns my gut. It’s not the same as it was before. And cos it don’t have its teeth, it struggles to eat the meat Old One gives it. When it does, it throws up.

  ‘Sparrow, I don’t think the magyk worked too well this time,’ I tell him.

  He glares at me and the air around him threatens tears, so I shut up.

  But by the time we’ve helped Old One lug food and firewood into the tent, the dog is stiff and its eyes are glazed. Sparrow cries and rages over it, zapping it again and again until Old One and me pull his arms away.

  ‘Ent your fault it didn’t work,’ I tell him, but he won’t be comforted.

  My fledgling idea’s been pressing against my lips. But he’s so upset that I wonder if it stands a chance of working. If he’s this tearful, will he ever want to try his death-magyk again? And is it alright to do it, or is it proper dark and wicked – is death a thing that should never be touched?

  Old One somehow calms his sails and gets him sitting on a reindeer skin with his legs crossed. When I ask what he’s doing he mutters that she’s helping him focus on his visions.

  After that she makes us eat cubes of dug-up shark meat and slices of blubber that I’m so grateful for in this cold, I swallow them wi
thout questioning for once.

  While I eat, I ponder my idea – the seed that’s blooming in my bones. The only plan I’ve got. ‘Sparrow, d’you want to try waking up another beast?’ I ask slowly, curling my toes. ‘Want to fright Stag good and rotten?’

  In the thickest, most silent part of the night, we creep from the tent and head towards the Chieftain’s. We blend our bodies with the deepest shadows, passing polar dogs with icicles hanging from their muzzles. I bundle my cloak more tightly round me and feel the weight of the Opals in my pocket again.

  Thaw drops warnings into my skull, from her viewpoint high above the frozen clouds.  Hurry, she squawks.  Brass-buckle bad-blubber on the move!

  Crow, in his bird form, waits outside the tent. He shifts back into a boy and I slip him a stack of bloodcakes that he gobbles quick-sharp. He nods at me and Sparrow. ‘Ready?’

  ‘Aye.’

  Crow cups his hands around his mouth. Then he yells a stream of warning-words, in the Fangtooth tongue. I never knew he could speak it, and awe glows in my chest. We hide between two tents as the guards streak out of the tent, looking this way and that for the trouble Crow’s warned of. Then they run past.

  Crow shifts back into his bird shape.

  Inside the tent, flames crackle. The stillness makes me feel uneasy. ‘Quick, we don’t have long.’ We rush towards the casket and duck down behind it.

  Can I risk a dream-dance to search for the Chieftain’s spirit, leaving Sparrow alone here with Stag so close? ‘I’m going to see if his spirit is still close by,’ I whisper. ‘Maybe I can find it in the dream-dance realm and ask him if we can wake him up.’ And if I don’t find his spirit, but Sparrow’s magyk works, I’ll just have to pray he don’t hate that we dredged him back into the waking world . . .

  Sparrow grabs my cloak but I gently prise his fingers off.

  I sit on the floor and feel for the rune charm around my neck, the one that gifts me protection for dream-dancing. Then I shut my eyes and listen to my breath sigh in and out like a tide. I let Sparrow and the tent drift out of reach. I push forwards, lean out of my body and float up into the air. I search, holding tightly to the cord between my spirit and my body. The Chieftain’s presence fills the tent and I’m startled by the heaviness of it. He sits on his throne, staring stonily into the distance. On his belly, a wound oozes.