Secret Guardians Page 4

  So when he and his hawk eventually managed to force their way out of the Strong-hold, he expected to find everything as he had left it all those years ago. He thought there would be banners and horses, and a camp full of soldiers who would flock to him, shouting his name.

  He thought the Heir would be easy to find in such company.

  The peaceful city that awaited him was a bitter disappointment. It made his eyes burn. It made his iron teeth grind harder. He strode down the peaceful streets leaving a trail of ice everywhere he went, and the peaceful people fell asleep without a murmur of protest.

  How the Harshman despised peace! With every step, his rage doubled and his shrivelled heart grew blacker. Above his head, the hawk shrieked its disdain.

  ‘When … I … Am … Margrave … This … Will … Change,’ snarled the Harshman.

  But before he could become Margrave, he must kill the Heir.

  Of course, the boy was not the Heir, not any longer. With the Margravine dead, he was now Margrave of Neuhalt. But he had been the Heir just a little while ago, and that was what counted. His blood still had the power. His death would still usher in a whole new world.

  ‘My … New … World.’

  And with that thought stirring the vitals he did not have, the Harshman began to search the city.

  When he was in the Strong-hold, Pummel had walked through a number of stone walls. So he knew what to expect. The rock would feel like cobwebs brushing his face and hands. It would probably make him a bit sick and wobbly, especially with a couple of other people hanging onto him. And his nose would bleed.

  But apart from that, it would be easy enough.

  Instead, he felt as if he was trying to wade through mud. He could see the other side of the outcrop, but it was miles away and he didn’t think he would ever reach it. He was short of breath, too, and felt so heavy that he was afraid he might sink into the earth.

  There’s something wrong with the raashk, he thought.

  His first impulse was to take Duckling and Otte straight back the way they’d come. Being enslaved was surely better than being stuck inside a rock forever.

  He looked over his shoulder. Seen through the raashk, the slavers were just a jumble of bones, piling on top of other bones, which must belong to Arms-mistress Krieg and Lord Rump.

  As for Old Lady Skint, her bones were striding around the cart, vibrating with fury and puzzlement.

  Pummel shivered, and began to turn, to take them back.

  But then he hesitated. If they went back, Otte would be forced into joining Old Lady Skint’s crew. And Pummel would do almost anything to stop that happening.

  So he waited.

  The slavers shackled Arms-mistress Krieg and Lord Rump, and dragged them up onto the cart. Then they began to search the clearing and the trees beyond for the children.

  The cold of the rock seeped into Pummel’s chest, and when he looked at the bones that were Otte, he could see the boy’s teeth chattering. Duckling’s ribs billowed in and out, as if she couldn’t get enough air.

  The slavers searched on and on.

  Pummel’s sight was beginning to fade now, and Duckling and Otte seemed to be getting further and further away from him. Their bones looked thinner. All three of them were gasping for breath—

  At last, one of the slavers took hold of the horse and led it out of the clearing onto the road. The others strode on either side of the cart. Old Lady Skint peered around one last time, then followed them.

  Pummel waited for six more agonised breaths. There was a buzzing in his ears and his heart felt as if it was about to burst. Duckling’s hand was limp in his. Otte looked so far away that Pummel could hardly see him.

  He wasn’t sure that the slavers had really gone, but he couldn’t hold out a moment longer. With his last bit of strength he pushed his way back through the rock.

  And dragged Duckling and Otte out into the beautiful, beautiful air.

  Many miles to the south and deep within the salt mines of Neuhalt, a slave girl called Sooli shivered, as if a brizzlehound had walked over her grave.

  Someone has used the raashk, she thought, and the notion filled her with fury and despair.

  She hacked at the salt, remembering the dreadful moment two weeks ago when her great-grandmother, the Bayam of Saaf, had died. It had happened many miles away, but Sooli had felt it, right down here under the earth.

  The Bayam’s last breath had left her body and fled straight to her great-granddaughter, along with some of the old woman’s power.

  Sooli had known for as long as she could remember that she would be Bayam one day. But she had never thought it would come so soon. Her great-grandmother was old, yes, but only in the way a tree is old. Or a rock. Something that would be there forever. Sooli had thought she had years yet, before she needed to take her training seriously.

  She had not been completely lazy. She had memorised the names of the winds, and the amazing deeds of the great Bayams of Long Ago. She had learned how to weave a path, and a do-not-see, though she did not always get them right. She had almost learned to conceal herself in the shadows, which was like a do-not-see, but different.

  But then she had been captured by the slavers and brought to the salt mines, and everything had changed. Ever since that day, she had been practising her skills as hard as she could. But even with the power that had come to her from her great-grandmother, it was not enough.

  She glanced around the cavern at her fellow slaves. A Saaf girl was weeping hopelessly. A little boy from the Beastie Isles was whimpering with hunger.

  Sooli hugged them both, and tipped half her salt into their buckets. It was hard for all the children in the mine, but the smallest ones suffered most. If they did not dig enough salt, they did not get fed. And how could a six-year-old possibly dig enough salt?

  Her fury and despair flared higher. What sort of people would steal children, and work them to death? And what sort of Bayam could do so little to help those children?

  If only I had the raashk and the Wind’s Blessing, thought Sooli. Then I could be a proper Bayam and get us all out of here before anyone else dies!

  But she did not have the raashk and the Wind’s Blessing, because someone had stolen them. And Sooli did not understand how that was possible.

  If her great-grandmother had known she was dying, she would have moved all of Neuhalt to find Sooli and pass on her inheritance. She would have come to the salt mines, and tried to make her secret way past the guards into these awful tunnels.

  But she had not come, which meant she must have died suddenly and unexpectedly. Maybe—

  Sooli sat bolt upright. Maybe the thief had killed her! Maybe the Bayam had not known she was about to die because she had been struck from behind. And then the thief – the murderer – had taken the raashk and the Wind’s Blessing for himself.

  A bell rang in the distance, and Sooli stood up, trembling with this new understanding. She made sure that all the smallest children had enough salt, even if it meant that she went short. Then, surrounded by clanking buckets, filthy faces, and a score of unhappy ghosts, she made her way through the tunnels to the shaft where the guard waited for them.

  For once her mind was not on escape. Or rather, not entirely.

  Because a Bayam was meant to be a wise-woman and a warrior for her people. She was meant to be cunning and clever and subtle and fierce.

  Sooli did not think she was any of those things. But when times were desperate, a Bayam was also ruthless. And that was something she could be – if only she could get her hands on her great-grandmother’s killer.

  Duckling lay on the ground, trembling uncontrollably. Her head spun, and she felt as if the rock was still closing in around her.

  Beside her, Otte was curled in a tight little ball around his potions bag. Pummel was spewing up his breakfast.

  If Old Lady Skint had come back then, she could have done as she wished with them. But although it seemed to Duckling that her own breathing and Pumme
l’s retching were as loud as trumpets, the slavers didn’t return.

  When her head stopped spinning quite so badly, she sat up. Otte’s mice crept out of his sleeve and perched on his cheek, nibbling his ear. Pummel wiped his mouth and groaned.

  ‘Looks like your witchery isn’t working properly either,’ Duckling said in a shaky voice.

  ‘I thought—’ All the colour was gone from Pummel’s face, leached out of him by the rock. ‘I thought we were going to die.’

  ‘So did I,’ whispered Otte. He wriggled to a sitting position, with his mice teetering on his shoulder. ‘I thought we would die if we stayed there, and die if we came out.’

  Duckling dragged herself to her feet and stumbled out to the road. But the cart and its captives had passed out of sight, and all she could see was a distant bend.

  Tears stung her eyes. Grandpa had been the one constant person in her ever-changing life. She didn’t trust him an inch; sometimes she didn’t even like him. But he was family. And now he’d been taken by slavers.

  ‘D-doesn’t look as if they’re coming back,’ she said, trying to sound as normal as possible.

  Otte had managed to stand up too by then, though his mice squeaked in protest. ‘Then we must go after them,’ he said.

  Pummel, still grey-faced, blinked. ‘What?’

  ‘They have t-taken Arms-mistress Krieg,’ stammered Otte, hanging onto the rock for balance. ‘We must go after them. Now, before they get too far ahead.’

  He’s right, thought Duckling, as she walked back into the clearing. She took a deep breath and said, ‘Your crutches went with the cart, Otte. We’ll have to make new ones. Pummel and I can carry you a little way, but it’ll be easier if you can walk by yourself.’

  ‘What?’ Pummel hauled himself to his knees, then stood up, swaying dangerously. ‘You’re not really— no. No! We’ve only just got away from them. We should go to the farm. Ma will know what to do.’

  ‘I will not desert Arms-mistress Krieg when she is in trouble,’ said Otte.

  ‘But—’

  ‘She left Brun, her own son, in the Strong-hold so she could come with me and protect me,’ said Otte. ‘How can I leave her to the slavers?’

  Pummel shook his head, then winced as if the movement hurt. ‘She’d want you to leave her. She’d tell you to leave her.’

  ‘But I cannot,’ said Otte, clutching his bag of potions.

  Pummel grabbed Duckling’s arm and dragged her to the other side of the clearing. ‘Listen, we can’t go after them,’ he whispered. ‘It’s too dangerous. Help me persuade Otte to come to the farm.’

  ‘But he’s right,’ said Duckling. ‘I can’t desert Grandpa either.’

  ‘That’s daft,’ whispered Pummel. ‘How are we supposed to beat someone like Old Lady Skint? We’ll end up slaves ourselves. Or dead, more likely.’

  ‘You don’t have to come with us,’ said Duckling, though she hoped desperately that Pummel would come. She couldn’t imagine following the slavers without him.

  Actually, she couldn’t imagine following the slavers at all, not without starting to tremble again.

  But just a few months ago Grandpa had said to her, ‘If you want something, my sweet, you must go after it. You must fix your heart on it, as a sailor fixes his heart on the star that will guide him home. And you must say to yourself, I will get there. I may not have a chart, but I will get there. Storms and sea monsters may lie in my way, but I will get there. And then you must take the first step.’

  At the time, he’d been talking about a fine gold watch chain he’d spotted on someone else’s chest, and immediately coveted.

  But maybe it’d work for other things too, thought Duckling. Like rescuing Grandpa and Krieg from the slavers.

  Because she definitely didn’t have a chart. And storms and sea monsters were nowhere near as frightening as Old Lady Skint.

  But she couldn’t let Grandpa down. Or Otte.

  ‘Look, Pummel,’ she said, ‘if it was your ma taken away by slavers, you’d go after her, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘And you wouldn’t let anything stop you?’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘I don’t think Otte will let anything stop him, either. I know Krieg’s not his real ma, but she’s close enough. If we went to your farm, I reckon we’d wake up one morning soon and find him gone. Better to go with him now.’

  She turned back to Otte. ‘These crutches,’ she said. ‘We’ll have to pad them with something. How about we tear some bits off the hem of your skirt?’

  The chicken was feeling strange. She’d felt a bit odd ever since they left the Strong-hold, especially when she was anywhere near Farmboy or Wilygirl.

  But now that oddness was worse.

  She’d been happy in the Strong-hold, especially when Healerboy had rescued her from the kitchen, moments before she was due to become the Big Boss’s dinner. As a chicken, she hadn’t had to think about much. It had been mostly, Breadcrumbs, mmm. And, Worms, mmm-mm! And, Dogs, eek!

  Since taking to the open road, however, she’d found herself thinking a lot more. And some of those thoughts were not chicken thoughts at all.

  Grass seed, mmm. Earwig, mmm! Wait. Ghosts? Ghosts on the wind?

  What was more, she could see something shiny around both Farmboy and Wilygirl.

  A familiar shiny.

  She tried to ignore it, but she couldn’t.

  She tried to remember why it was familiar, but she couldn’t do that, either.

  So she’d stayed close to them, all the way south.

  But then the badmen came, and the chicken had barely escaped with her tail feathers intact. She took refuge behind a tree, with the cat crouched next to her. And she watched.

  She got distracted a couple of times … Earwig! More earwig! MORE earwig! … but the cat cuffed her with a large paw … Eeek! Badcat! … and brought her attention back to the badmen.

  She saw the fighting. She saw Farmboy, Wilygirl and Healerboy fall into the rock, and a word wriggled into her little chicken head.

  Raashk.

  She didn’t know what it meant, but she knew it was part of the shiny, and she eyed it the same way she eyed earwigs and worms.

  And now the badmen were gone, and the three children were following them, and the cat was slinking after the children.

  The chicken considered her options. Her wing was completely healed now, so she could stay here …

  Earwig!

  Or she could follow Farmboy, Wilygirl and Healerboy. Which also meant following the badmen.

  Eek!

  Staying here was obviously better. But something drew her after the children, all the same.

  She snapped up one last earwig. Then she put her head down and dashed off along the road.

  At first, the children were able to follow the wheel ruts of the cart. But then the ground grew hard, and when they came to a crossroads they had to stop and ask questions at a nearby cottage.

  Duckling rounded her shoulders and put on a pitiful expression. ‘Sorry to bother you, Frow,’ she said, ‘but have you seen a horse and cart come this way? And a bunch of men with striped faces?’

  ‘Ooh yes,’ said the woman who answered the door, her eyes wide with remembered excitement. ‘They had a couple of prisoners, brutal murderers being taken off to face justice. Thank the gods for the Honourable Traders! But for them, we might have been slaughtered in our beds.’

  ‘Which road did they take, if you please, Frow?’

  The woman’s expression changed, and she peered suspiciously at the children. ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘Those brutal murderers killed our ma and pa,’ said Duckling, squeezing out a couple of tears. ‘We want to see them hang. And if you please, Frow, have you got a crust of stale bread for three hungry orphans? And a glass of water?’

  That was all it took to rid the woman of her suspicions. ‘Orphans?’ she cried. ‘You poor little souls! Come in, come in, I’m sure I ca
n find something for you to eat. Have you got a water bottle? No? Dear me, that’s no good. I’ll give you something to take with you.’

  They left that house with a hunk of fresh bread, a sausage, three wrinkled apples and a slab of cheese. The woman gave them a glass bottle too, filled to the brim with milk, and a couple of old cushions to pad the top of Otte’s crutches.

  ‘You are very good at lying,’ Otte said admiringly as they set off again, eating the bread and sausage.

  ‘Lots of practice,’ replied Duckling.

  Pummel said nothing. He’d been very quiet since they left the clearing, which Duckling put down to worry. After all, there was a lot to worry about.

  She was worried in case they didn’t catch up with the slavers, and worried in case they did. She was worried about the salt mines and Grandpa and Arms-mistress Krieg, and Otte, and getting enough food, and the blister that was forming on her right heel. She suspected Pummel was worried about the same things – except maybe Grandpa and the blister.

  But she hoped he noticed how hard she was working to take care of Otte. She hoped he could see how she had changed.

  She swallowed a bit of bread and said, ‘I’m not the only good liar around here, am I, Otte?’

  ‘It is not such a very big lie to pretend that Brun is Heir and I am not,’ said Otte. ‘The grafs and grafines want a warrior for Margrave, and Brun can already match some of them with a sword. Besides, I do not want to be Margrave. I would rather be a scribe and physician.’

  ‘I wasn’t talking about you and Brun,’ said Duckling. ‘I was talking about your witchery.’

  At that, Otte’s face closed up like a fist. ‘It is not witchery; there is no such thing.’

  Duckling stared at him in astonishment. Pummel said earnestly, ‘Of course it’s witchery. Just like the raashk, and Duckling’s breeze.’

  ‘No.’ Otte busied himself sharing a bit of sausage with his mice. ‘It is trickery.’

  Duckling shouldn’t have been so surprised. No one in the Strong-hold believed in witchery, no matter how many strange things happened around them.