Haunted Warriors: The Rogues 3 Read online

  Also by Lian Tanner

  THE ROGUES

  Accidental Heroes

  Secret Guardians

  THE KEEPERS

  Museum of Thieves

  City of Lies

  Path of Beasts

  THE HIDDEN

  Ice Breaker

  Sunker’s Deep

  Fetcher’s Song

  First published by Allen & Unwin in 2019

  Copyright © Lian Tanner 2019

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  ISBN 978 1 76029 354 3

  eISBN 978 1 76 087 243 4

  For teaching resources, explore

  www.allenandunwin.com/resources/for-teachers

  Cover and text design by Joanna Hunt

  Cover illustration by Sher Rill Ng

  Set by Midland Typesetters, Australia

  CONTENTS

  1 THE CURSE

  2 IF ANYONE SEES YOU

  3 THE HARSHMAN

  4 WE THOUGHT THE DANGER WAS OVER

  5 HOW WILL WE GET PAST THEM?

  6 THE DO-NOT-SEE

  7 THE BAYAM CHICKEN

  8 TRAITORS! VILLAINS! SPIES!

  9 PRISONERS

  10 THE PRIVY COUNCIL

  11 WE BRING NEWS OF GREAT DANGER

  12 EEK!

  13 DISASTER

  14 RUN!

  15 A CHANCE

  16 THE DUNGEONS

  17 DON’T GIVE ME AWAY

  18 A BIT OF INDIGESTION

  19 I WILL HOLD THEM

  20 IF THE WAY IS TIGHT …

  21 I WILL RULE NEUHALT

  22 STORIES ARE IMPORTANT

  23 I LOVE AN EXECUTION

  24 BOILS AND BLACK VOMITING

  25 YOU WILL THINK OF SOMETHING

  26 I … HAVE … RETURNED

  27 A COLD, UGLY POWER

  28 IRON TO RUST

  29 THE GRAFINE IS DYING

  30 SO MUCH BLOOD

  31 NO ONE EVER HAD A NEED AS GREAT AS OURS

  32 A MOST DREADFUL DISEASE

  33 WITH HER NAME ON ITS LIPS

  34 TOO MUCH EEK!

  35 HOW MANY ROOMS IN THE STRONG-HOLD?

  36 THREE WRINKLED CARROTS

  37 STONE AS WELL AS BONE

  38 HIS OUTRAGED BELLOWS

  39 THE GHOST OF THE MARGRAVINE

  40 A STORM OF FOOTSTEPS

  41 THE VERY WORST SORT OF NIGHTMARE

  42 I CAN MAKE YOU SLEEP

  43 A VOTE OF THANKS

  44 HE IS EVERYWHERE

  45 OFFERS OF WEALTH AND POWER

  46 WHERE … WILL … THE … CHILDREN … HIDE?

  47 COME QUICKLY

  48 WE WISH TO STRIKE A BARGAIN

  49 THE OLD ONES

  50 THE STORIES THAT WOULD HAVE BEEN YOURS

  51 HE IS STILL HERE!

  52 SEIZE THEM!

  53 GRANDPA

  54 MEANWHILE …

  To Vix, for friendship,

  woven baskets and cups of tea.

  From a distance, the curse looked like a seething black cloud. Bits of it spread right across the city of Berren, but it was thickest over the massive castle known as the Strong-hold.

  Duckling shivered when she saw it. ‘That’s where we’re going,’ she whispered to the Grandfather Wind. ‘Right into the middle of that cloud.’

  The Grandfather Wind growled, and the tarpaulin that had carried Duckling and her friends so smoothly across the sky since early yesterday morning lurched sideways.

  Pummel grabbed hold of Otte. Duckling wrapped her arms around the cat. Sooli seized the chicken.

  Duckling’s grandpa, who called himself Lord Rump, clutched his walking cane with one hand and the tarpaulin with the other, and cried, ‘I trust we are not going to tumble to our deaths, my sweet? I have grown used to this delightful mode of transport, and would hate it to end badly.’

  The only one who didn’t move was Arms-mistress Krieg. She sat with her sword across her lap and her eyes fixed on Otte, ready to snatch the boy up in an instant if he seemed in danger of falling.

  But to everyone’s relief, the Grandfather Wind settled again, although it seemed to Duckling that the tarpaulin had slowed a little, as if the wind was reluctant to take them where they wanted to go.

  No, not wanted. Duckling definitely didn’t want to return to the Strong-hold, with all its plots and perils. But that was where they must go, and as quickly as possible.

  ‘Why did the wind toss us about like that?’ asked Arms-mistress Krieg, when they had all calmed down and let go of each other.

  Duckling pointed to the black cloud, which was now directly ahead of them. ‘There. It’s the curse. Can’t you see it?’

  Pummel nodded and his honest face turned pale. Sooli chewed her lip. The chicken bobbed nervously, as if there were a dozen things she wanted to say, if only she could find the words.

  ‘Naaasty,’ murmured the cat.

  But Krieg, Lord Rump and Otte shook their heads.

  ‘I can see nothing but the city,’ said Otte. ‘Where is the curse? What does it look like?’ His four white mice, who rode on his shoulder with their noses to the wind, chittered to him, and he tried to stand up, craning his neck for a better view.

  Immediately, Lord Rump and Arms-mistress Krieg seized hold of him. The arms-mistress said, ‘Young Ser, you must not put yourself at risk.’

  ‘Especially not now,’ cried Lord Rump, hanging onto Otte’s wooden leg as if he would never let go. ‘Why, you are the most important person in Neuhalt, though no one but us knows it yet. Your death would be a tragedy.’

  Otte sighed, and let them pull him back down again. ‘But what does it look like?’

  ‘Can you see the castle?’ asked Pummel.

  Otte nodded, and his mice clung to his collar, protesting.

  ‘The curse hangs over it like a thunderstorm,’ said Pummel. ‘Except a thunderstorm can be beautiful, and the curse is ugly.’ He glanced apologetically at the chicken. ‘I’m sorry, but it is.’

  The chicken, who only ever spoke to Duckling in dreams, said nothing. But both she and Sooli looked as if they would rather be anywhere else in the world.

  ‘Ugly or not,’ said Lord Rump, rubbing his hands together, ‘it seems we must land soon and prepare ourselves. We have all managed to get a little sleep, but we need clean clothes, a good feed and a bath before we approach the Strong-hold. Then we will scout out the situation and—’

  ‘We haven’t got time for that, Grandpa,’ said Duckling. ‘The Harshman will be coming after us as quick as he can. We have to get into the Strong-hold and find out who raised him from the dead, and how we can send him back to his grave before he—’

  Her grandpa interrupted her. ‘Can the Harshman fly from the south of Neuhalt to the north? Can he summon the wind to carry him, as my oh-so-clever granddaughter has done? No? Then he must walk from the salt mines to Berren, and that is a goodly distance. We have all the time in the wo
rld.’

  ‘Time for food, yes,’ said Sooli, in the slight accent that suggested Neuhaltese was not her mother tongue. ‘But clothes—’

  Lord Rump held up a hand to silence her. ‘Clothes are just as important as food, young lady. Who would take us seriously looking like this?’

  He had a point. Until a day and a half ago, they had all (except the cat and the chicken) been slaves in the salt mines, and they were half-starved and filthy. Sooli was worst off – she had been in the mines for three months or more – but none of them were at their best. Their faces were caked with earth and salt, their hair was matted and their clothes hung off them in tatters.

  What’s more, Grandpa still wore the remains of an enormous dress, which had been part of a disguise. Otte wore a dress too. His skirt had been torn off for bandages, so now it was more like a tunic, but he still didn’t look anything like who he really was.

  All the same, Duckling said, ‘They don’t have to take us seriously. We’re not going to march in the front gate and announce ourselves. We mustn’t be seen, especially not Sooli. So we’re going in secretly, and we’re going to stay secret for as long as we can. We agreed on this, Grandpa. We all agreed.’

  The wind whistled past Duckling’s ears. The city drew closer. The tarpaulin slipped lower in the sky.

  Otte cleared his throat, fixed his eyes on the Stronghold and said, ‘We will need clean clothes. It is good if the rest of you go in secretly. But I have been hiding all my life, pretending to be someone I am not, and I am sick of it. So Arms-mistress Krieg and I will march in the front gates.’

  ‘We’re not going to steal anything,’ said Pummel, two hours later. ‘Just because we need food and clothes doesn’t mean it’s all right to take someone else’s.’

  They were gathered in a deserted house halfway along the street where the Grandfather Wind had dropped them. A piplum tree grew through the floor and up through the roof, the plaster walls were cracked, and every corner was festooned with spider webs and dust.

  Pummel still felt dizzy from their landing. And the curse, which he hadn’t even noticed last time he was in Berren, made his head ache. But he wasn’t going to give in about the stealing.

  Lord Rump shook his head sorrowfully. ‘Then our mission will fail before it is begun, dear boy. Unless you have some coins tucked about your person? I certainly have none. And if we cannot buy what we need, it is only sensible to take it.’

  Pummel glanced at Duckling, who said, ‘Grandpa’s right, we can’t buy anything, not without coin. If we want food and clothes we’ll have to steal them.’

  ‘Exactly what I was say—’ began Lord Rump.

  ‘But we could leave a promise,’ continued Duckling. ‘A written promise. Then, as soon as we do have some money, we can come back and pay them.’

  Lord Rump’s bushy eyebrows twitched in dismay. ‘You want to put something in writing? No no no, never put anything in writing. Why, when I was hunting the dog-men of Outer Stevia—’

  ‘That’s agreed then,’ said Duckling. ‘Grandpa and I’ll go. The rest of you wait here, we won’t be long.’ And she and Lord Rump hurried away, still arguing.

  They were gone for an hour, during which time Pummel could think of hardly anything but food and the Harshman. In his head, burning eyes were mixed up with hot porridge, and sausages and gravy sat next to iron teeth, a bony skull and a monster who left footprints of ice everywhere he trod.

  The children had escaped from the Harshman three times now, and each time had been harder. A day and a half ago, he had come so close to killing Otte – to killing all of them – that Pummel’s knees still trembled when he thought of it. It was only Duckling’s witchery that had saved them.

  No, he reminded himself. It’s not Duckling’s witchery; it’s Sooli’s. And when this is over, Duckling will have to give it back to her. Just as I’ll have to give back the raashk.

  He felt a twinge of sorrow at the thought. He had grown used to being more than a farmboy. He had even grown used to being able to walk through walls.

  But he would give up the raashk all the same. It was Sooli’s heritage, and he could not keep it from her.

  In fact, he would have handed it over already, just as Duckling would have handed over the Wind’s Blessing. But, according to the chicken, one child was more vulnerable than three. One stick could be broken, where three would hold.

  Which meant that if the Harshman caught one of them, the other two would still have the power to help.

  Pummel glanced at the chicken. It was hard to remember that she was really a five-hundred-year-old wise-woman, the Bayam of Saaf, who had been caught up in her own curse. Right now, she was sprawled in a patch of sunlight from the broken roof, with her eyes half closed and one black wing stretched out, like any other chicken.

  Pummel hoped she hadn’t forgotten who she was again.

  When Duckling and Lord Rump returned at last, they carried a bundle of assorted clothing and a dozen hot pies. Lord Rump was rolling his eyes. Duckling looked furious.

  As she handed a pie to Pummel, she said, ‘I left a note promising to pay for what we took, and Grandpa stole it. I had to go back and leave another one, then watch him all the way to make sure he didn’t sneak off and get rid of that too.’

  Pummel nodded, unsurprised, and bit into his pie with a groan of pleasure.

  Everyone else was eating hungrily. Otte picked off bits of pastry and shared them with his mice. Sooli, Arms-mistress Krieg and the cat chewed and swallowed with silent intensity. The chicken snapped up peas and scraps of meat as if they were spiders trying to escape.

  At last, all the pies were gone except one. Lord Rump gazed at it mournfully. ‘I suppose this one must be yours, Arms-mistress. I would not wish you to go hungry, even though my own belly is not yet half full.’ He put on a pitiful expression. ‘Please, take it. Your need is greater than mine.’

  The corner of Arms-mistress Krieg’s mouth turned up, and she took the pie, saying, ‘How many did you eat on the way back?’

  ‘Why, none at all,’ said Lord Rump, looking offended.

  ‘Three,’ said Duckling, through her last mouthful.

  While the arms-mistress ate, Lord Rump handed out breeches and pants, shirts and coats. He gave Sooli a long blue garment, saying, ‘Duckling found this for you; it has a hood that you can pull over your face, and pockets for your hands. I suggest you put it on before we leave this shelter; if anyone in the city sees the colour of your skin, you will be arrested on the spot as a Saffy spy.’

  Otte, who was still hunting down bits of pastry, looked up. ‘Lord Rump, you must not say Saffy, it is very rude. Sooli’s people are the Saaf.’

  Lord Rump raised both eyebrows. ‘My apologies, young Sooli, I did not mean to insult you. Saaf, is it? I shall not forget. But my warning still holds. Keep yourself hidden.’

  He turned to Arms-mistress Krieg. ‘We have a coat for you, too, to conceal your sword as we walk through the city. Please try not to kill anyone unless you absolutely must.’

  He stopped talking for long enough to swap his filthy dress for a fine pair of trousers, a shirt and waistcoat. He had even found a cravat somewhere, and he wound it around his neck and knotted it with great care.

  ‘I feel almost human again,’ he said. ‘It is a pity we cannot bathe, but our smelliness will not stand out among our friends in the Strong-hold, who are not fond of soap and water. Duckling, tuck in your shirt. Otte, you have gravy on your chin; please wipe it off. Now, try to look honest, all of you, instead of like a band of villains. Are we ready?’

  Pummel nodded. Sooli swallowed and drew the hood of her coat more closely over her face. Otte looked sick with fright, but he said, ‘We are ready.’

  ‘In that case,’ said Lord Rump, turning to one side so that everyone could see his distinguished profile, ‘let us step back into the fray. Our worst enemy is far behind us. Our goal awaits us. Onwards, my friends. Onwards to the Strong-hold of Berren!’

  The Harsh
man was growing stronger and more cunning.

  When first summoned from his grave, he had been little more than ancient bones and gristle. But with every person he killed, more yellowed flesh covered those bones. And with every ghost he ate, more knowledge came to him.

  Other people’s memories rattled in his skull. Other people’s loves and hatreds tried to get a grip on his wizened heart.

  A heart so small and black cannot hold love. But hatred has hooks, and will cling to anything. So the Harshman, who had started out hating only his long-dead enemies, now hated everyone else as well, with an almost equal passion.

  Almost equal. His greatest hatred he reserved for the children who had frustrated his ambitions.

  ‘I … Will … Destroy … Them,’ he growled.

  First, he would kill the boy Otte, who he still thought of as the Heir of Neuhalt. The boy was no longer the Heir, of course, not since the Harshman had murdered his mother the Margravine. Now the boy was Margrave. But he had been the Heir until very recently, which meant that shedding his blood would make the Harshman so powerful that no one would be able to stop him.

  ‘I … Will … Rule … Neuhalt.’ The Harshman crunched his bony knuckles. ‘I … Will … Kill … Everyone … Who … Defies … Me. And … I … Will … Start … With … The … Children.’

  But to do that, he must catch them.

  He could not command the wind as the children had done, and he had no patience for walking back to the city. It would take too long. So he stood in the middle of the road and picked over the memories of the ghosts he had eaten, like a slaughterbird on the battlefield.

  Happiness? Bah, that would not carry him to the city. Neither would memories of family, or fun. (The Harshman did not understand fun, not unless it involved swords. And lots of blood.) He ignored music and beauty and the laughter of babies. He mocked kindness. He sneered at friendship. He—

  ‘Wait,’ he growled.

  In the memory of one of the most recently eaten ghosts, there was a kite. Normally, such a toy would have come under the pathetic heading of fun. But this kite was huge. Many years ago, this kite had almost lifted its small owner off the ground …