Accidental Heroes Read online

  The Bayam’s heart fluttered in her chest. ‘My dreams told me truly,’ she whispered. ‘Someone inside the Stronghold is trying to wake our old enemy!’

  Though ‘wake’ was probably the wrong word.

  ‘Raise from the dead’ was more accurate.

  ‘I must stop them,’ whispered the Bayam, ‘before they destroy—’

  It was then that the Black Wind pounced.

  The Bayam stumbled and nearly fell. ‘No!’ she whispered. ‘Not yet, I am not ready! I have too much to do!’

  But her fluttering heart was already growing weaker, and she could feel the wind tugging at her spirit, trying to drag it from her body.

  ‘I should not have come,’ she whispered. ‘I should be up at the Notch, passing the raashk and the Wind’s Blessing to the next Bayam.’

  Except who would she pass them to? Her daughter was dead, as was her granddaughter. And just two moons ago, her great-granddaughter had been stolen by slavers and taken away to work in the Margravine’s salt mines.

  The Bayam propped herself against the nearest wall. ‘O Black Wind,’ she whispered. ‘If I die now there will be no true Bayam. Who will know your name? Who will stop our old enemy? Give me a fistful of time. Give me until the next full moon, and I will go to my great-granddaughter, even though she is in the salt mines.’

  The Black Wind tugged harder.

  ‘All right then. Give me a thumb’s length of time. I will go back up to the Notch and find another girl. A Bayam who is not my kin is better than no Bayam at all!’

  The Black Wind dug its fingers into her ribs and whistled down her ears. The Bayam’s legs felt as if they belonged to someone else. Her heart was growing weaker with every breath.

  But she must not die. Not yet.

  ‘O Black Wind, give me a fingernail of time,’ she panted. ‘I will find a child here, and then I will go with you. Please!’

  The Black Wind seemed to hesitate. Then at last it backed off a little.

  The Bayam’s legs still trembled, but she pushed herself away from the wall. A fingernail of time was not long – she must work quickly, before the wind came for her again.

  She bent over and studied the shining silver paths that only she could see. What she needed was a girl with some Saaf blood in her veins. A cunning girl. A devious girl—

  But although she looked and looked, she could not find such a child. The paths showed her a boy whose great-great-grandmother was Saaf, though he did not know it. They showed her a girl as cunning as any Hag. But it was not enough. She needed both things together in the same child.

  She straightened up and said to the Black Wind, ‘Will you wait a little longer? Will you give me time to find the right girl?’

  The wind whistled its answer. The old woman’s heart flip-flopped in her chest.

  ‘All right!’ she cried. ‘I will make do with what I have.’ She bent over again, with her old knees creaking, and wrapped her fingers around two of the silvery strands. ‘First I must make sure that these two children meet…’

  TOOTH AND CLAW

  Duckling spotted a likely looking boy almost as soon as she walked through the turnstile into the marketplace. He looked strong and rather stupid, which was exactly what Grandpa wanted.

  But when she tried to approach the boy, she couldn’t.

  First, a man driving a flock of goats got in her way. Then a dozen startled frogs pattered down out of the sky in front of her. And finally, a runaway pig dashed around her so many times that she almost fell over with dizziness.

  By the time Duckling had dodged the pig – and the children who were chasing it – the boy was gone.

  She didn’t really mind. All around her, stallholders were shouting to make themselves heard above the cries of sheep, geese, hens and dogs. A family strolled past, wearing nose plugs against the smell. A group of friends shopped for honey, and laughed as if they didn’t have a care in the world.

  Duckling watched them enviously for a moment or two. ‘One last Scheme,’ she reminded herself. ‘And the sooner it’s done, the better.’

  It didn’t take her long to spot another boy. This one had shaggy black hair and an open, honest face. He was inspecting some baby rabbits, and he didn’t look stupid. But maybe that didn’t matter so much. Grandpa liked honest people; they were easier to fool.

  Duckling was making her way towards him when she saw the iron-tipped staff in his hand, and the Snuffigator mask that hung from his belt.

  Drat, she thought. He’s already got a job. And she walked away.

  Or at least, she tried to.

  But at that moment, the runaway pig dashed past her again, and the children who were chasing it spun Duckling in so many circles that before she knew it, she was standing in front of the rabbit stall, right next to the boy with the honest face.

  Well, she thought, as she caught her breath. Since I’m here, I might as well give it a try.

  She leaned past the boy, saying, ‘’Scuse me, Herro.’ With one hand, she picked up a rabbit; with the other, she nudged a copper misery out of her pocket. It hit the boy’s boot and fell to the cobblestones.

  He’d been turning away from the stall; now he turned back, picked up the coin and said over the noise, ‘Excuse me, Frow. You dropped something.’

  Duckling gave a little gasp and put down the rabbit. ‘Oh, thank you, Herro! Grandpa gave it to me for my lunch. I would’ve been awfully hungry without it. Thank you for your honesty.’

  The boy blushed. ‘I’m sure anyone would have done the same.’

  ‘What?’ said Duckling, cupping her hand around her ear.

  The boy leaned closer so he didn’t have to shout. ‘Anyone would have done the same.’

  ‘No!’ Duckling widened her eyes. ‘Grandpa and I have only just come to Berren, but we’ve already discovered that it can be a wicked place. Most boys would have kept that coin for themselves.’ She smiled. ‘You’ve restored my faith, Herro. Perhaps city people aren’t so bad after all.’

  ‘I’m from the country.’

  ‘Really?’ Duckling’s smile grew enormous. ‘How nice to meet another country person!’

  They shook hands, and the boy said, ‘I can’t stay, Frow; I didn’t mean to come to the market at all today. I got turned around somehow, in the city streets—’

  ‘Please don’t go, not yet,’ cried Duckling. ‘I hardly ever meet people my own age. People I like, that is. There are plenty of the other sort. It makes me quite homesick for the farm, sometimes.’

  The boy grimaced agreement. But then he said, ‘I’d better go; I’m in a bit of trouble—’

  Duckling held out her hand. ‘Let me introduce myself, at least. My name’s Duckling. No, don’t laugh—’

  ‘I wasn’t going to—’

  ‘My older sister is called Goat, which is far worse. Just as well there weren’t three of us. I hate to think what Ma and Pa would’ve come up with next. Piglet, maybe.’

  A reluctant smile crossed the boy’s face, and he shook her hand. ‘My name’s Pummel.’

  ‘When I’m in trouble,’ said Duckling, ‘a visit to the market makes me feel better. Being around animals settles my mind, and things don’t seem quite so bad.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ asked the boy. He chewed his lip, then nodded. ‘Maybe you’re right, Frow Duckling. Maybe I won’t rush off just yet.’

  They wandered away from the rabbit stall together, like old friends. Pummel told Duckling about his farm (which was real), and how milk prices were so low he’d come to the city to find a job, so he could send money home to his ma. Duckling told him about her farm (which was completely imaginary), and how she and Grandpa had been thrown off it by a greedy landlord.

  The boy was shocked. Duckling squeezed out a couple of tears, raised her chin and said, ‘But country people know what to do when bad luck knocks us down, don’t we, Herro Pummel?’

  The boy nodded. ‘We get up and start again, Frow Duckling.’

  ‘I knew you’d understand
—’ Duckling broke off, as if she’d just thought of something. ‘I wonder,’ she said. ‘I wonder if …’

  ‘If what?’

  ‘No, I’m sure you wouldn’t be interested.’

  ‘You won’t know until you ask,’ the boy said stoutly. ‘What is it?’

  ‘You said you came to Berren to find work. Well, you see, Grandpa’s an important man these days and he needs a boy to help him with something.’ Duckling was careful not to look at the mask or the iron-tipped staff. ‘You might be just the person he’s searching for.’

  Pummel’s face fell. ‘If you’d asked me two weeks ago, Frow, I would have said yes. But now I’m a Snuffigator.’ He tapped the mask. ‘I’m only a cadet, and still on probation, but I hope to—’

  ‘Oh, how stupid of me,’ cried Duckling. ‘I should’ve realised. You must think me a fool, Herro Pummel.’

  The boy smiled. ‘Not at all. I’m pleased to have made a friend. Perhaps I’ll see you at the market again, Frow Duckling?’

  ‘Of course, Herro Pummel. I look forward to it.’

  And with a bow and a curtsey, they parted.

  AN UNWANTED GIFT

  She was nice, thought Pummel, as he wandered past a group of Honourable Traders with stripes tattooed on their faces. I almost wish I wasn’t a Snuffigator, so I could’ve said yes to that job.

  He laughed. Just this morning he’d been so proud of his new role that he could hardly walk straight. And now he was regretting it!

  But Duckling was right, the market had settled his mind. ‘I’m definitely loyal,’ he whispered to himself. ‘I just didn’t know about the sabotage and the Saffies. But I know now. And I’ll remember it, so I don’t get into trouble again.’

  All the same, when someone behind him shrieked, he flinched, as if it was the guards of the Home Defence coming for him. But when he turned around it was nothing more serious than a small boy who had stuck his fingers into a pile of honeycomb. The boy’s mother was dragging him away, shouting, ‘Stop that racket, or the Harshman will come for you!’

  Pummel watched them go. When he was little, one of the boys from the neighbouring farm had told him about the Harshman. He leaves a patch of ice wherever he walks. His teeth are made of iron, and his eyes are burning coals. A hawk flies over his head—

  For several months after that, Pummel had thought the Harshman was real, and had checked under his bed every night before he went to sleep.

  But in the end he’d left that belief behind. Just as he was leaving behind his belief in ghosts and witchery.

  He squatted down beside a cage full of cats and whispered, ‘Loyal, that’s me.’

  A huge cat with ragged ears and spotted fur pushed its way to the front of the cage. Pummel reached through the bars and scratched it behind the ears.

  ‘I wish I could buy you, puss,’ he said. ‘But I live in a dormitory, and we can’t have pets.’

  ‘Not alloooooowed?’ said the cat.

  Pummel snatched his hand out of the cage. ‘Did you—’ He stared at the cat, which blinked at him with yellow eyes.

  Had it really spoken to him?

  No. Impossible. That’d be witchery and there’s no such thing.

  ‘Sorry, puss,’ he said. ‘I’m a bit jumpy today.’

  Those yellow eyes shifted to stare at something behind him. Pummel turned around, hoping it was the girl, Duckling.

  An old woman stood just a few paces away, watching him. She was dark-skinned and tiny, with a fur cloak around her shoulders, and three feathers in her hair.

  A Saffy!

  Pummel didn’t know what to do. He’d seen Saffies passing by the farm every now and again; he’d even met a few, though none of them had been dressed like this.

  But that was before he knew about the sabotage.

  I should report her, he thought.

  Except the old woman didn’t look like a saboteur. She looked sick. Her eyes were half-closed and she swayed every time the wind blew.

  If Ma was here, she’d help a sick old woman, Saffy or not, thought Pummel. And he stood up.

  Then he thought, But if someone sees me talking to her, I’ll lose my job!

  And he quickly squatted down again.

  Luckily, no one else seemed to have noticed the old woman, which meant Pummel could pretend he hadn’t noticed her either. He watched her out of the corner of his eye, hoping she’d go away. Instead, she came closer. The feathers in her hair nodded. Her fur cloak struck sparks from the bars of the cage.

  No, it didn’t, Pummel reminded himself. It’s just hypnotism—

  The rest of that thought vanished as the old woman opened her mouth to speak to him.

  No! thought Pummel. Someone might see! I’ll lose my job!

  He leaped to his feet and pushed past her. As he did so, the old Saffy woman slipped something into his hand; something that felt like a small leather pouch.

  Pummel didn’t even look at it. He grasped his iron-tipped staff and hurried out into the crowded marketplace, mumbling, ‘Excuse me, Herro. Sorry, Frow,’ to the people he bumped against.

  The pouch in his hand felt as wrinkled as the old Saffy. And just as dangerous.

  I’ll throw it away, he thought. I’ll get rid of it, and no one will know I ever had it.

  Behind him, the Bayam leaned wearily against the cage, wondering how much longer she had, and wishing she was powerful enough to hold the Black Wind at arm’s length for another moon or so.

  The Bayam of five hundred years ago – one of the great Bayams – had had that sort of power. She could twitch the paths of twenty people at once. She could steal a knife from someone’s hand without being seen. She could ride the winds.

  But even she had not been able to stop the first Margrave of Neuhalt building his Strong-hold on top of the massive rock know as the Grimstone.

  For as long as anyone could remember, the Grimstone had lain at the heart of Saaf magic. It was the place where old women cast their spells; where old men sang their songs; where the winds clustered to renew their strength.

  But five hundred years ago, that had changed.

  The invaders came in huge ships, all the way from Halt-Bern, and there were so many of them that even the Bayam could not stop them. They called the land ‘Neuhalt’, and declared that it was theirs by right of conquest. They built a city, which they called ‘Berren’, all around the base of the Grimstone.

  They did not believe in magic.

  At first, things were not too bad for the Saaf. Back then, they were nomads, and although their winter lands had been stolen, they could still visit the Grimstone at the proper times, and carry out the proper ceremonies.

  That is, until the Margrave decided to build his Strong-hold on the sacred rock.

  The Bayam of the time begged him to choose somewhere else. But that first Margrave was a brutal man (his own people called him ‘Hemmer the Cruel’ or ‘Hemmer the Harsh’), and he despised the Saaf.

  So instead of listening to the Bayam, he laughed in her face. And then he vowed that he would hunt her people to extinction – just as soon as he had finished building his Strong-hold.

  The Bayam was not supposed to lay curses, so she waited, hoping that the Grimstone would rouse itself and throw off the builders.

  But the Grimstone must have been asleep, because the Strong-hold rose higher and higher, and spread wider and wider, until one day it covered the sacred rock entirely.

  On that day, the Bayam gave the raashk and the Wind’s Blessing to her daughter for safekeeping. Then she crept into the Strong-hold, determined to bring the whole thing tumbling to the ground.

  But something went wrong. Perhaps the Grimstone woke up at last. Perhaps it had its own plans.

  Whatever the reason, as the Bayam’s curse uncoiled, the Bayam vanished, taking much of her power with her. And instead of falling down, the Strong-hold enclosed itself in an invisible wall. People could go in easily enough, but none of the people who lived there could ever come out.

&nbs
p; The rest of Berren felt the effects of that misshapen curse, too. All through the city, the delicate land magic of Saaf grew strange and hostile. It tangled people’s feet and took them to places they didn’t want to go. It set trees to grow overnight, and dropped fish and frogs from the sky. It drew deadly airs up from under the ground.

  And finally, it took the people’s disbelief in magic and hardened it into something that had lasted five hundred years. No matter what happened to them, the citizens of Berren found some other reason for it.

  The present-day Bayam sighed. ‘It is no use dwelling on the long-ago. I must make do with what power I have, and summon the girl. Then I must teach her and the boy how to use their magic – before my time runs out.’

  ‘Ouuuut,’ said a voice from inside the cage.

  The Bayam’s weakened heart skipped several beats. One of the cats had its paw through the bars, and was lifting the latch from its socket. The door opened and the cat strolled out.

  The Bayam caught her breath.

  There were no more idle-cats – the people of Neuhalt had hunted them to extinction. But every now and again a trace of the old blood showed up in unexpected places. The huge paws. The spotted fur. The fierce, intelligent eyes.

  Suddenly, the Bayam felt a lot better. This was a sign, and she must not let it pass.

  ‘O excellent cat,’ she whispered. ‘Where are you from?’

  The cat looked at her long and hard. ‘Farooooona,’ it said at last, naming the peninsula north of Saaf.

  ‘Why have you come here?’ asked the Bayam.

  ‘Boooored,’ said the cat, twitching one of its ears.

  ‘I suppose,’ said the Bayam, ‘that someone like yourself must often be bored. You would not be satisfied with chasing mice, like your cage mates.’

  The cat curled its lip.

  ‘I believe a more exciting game is about to start,’ the Bayam said carefully. ‘A game of life and death—’

  ‘Mmmm?’ The cat looked interested.

  ‘That boy,’ said the Bayam, ‘will be part of it. I have given him the raashk. And I am about to summon a girl. She will be part of it too. If you would care to help them …’