43 
The wylers scattered, no longer a united force, and the Devil-Slayers picked them off one by one. Ned and Leo were on the ground, retrieving arrows from piles of bone. Scoot was gripping his ribs, his strength nearly spent. Beyond them, Murphy and a group of huntsmen were beating back a horde of horrahogs.
Ottilie didn’t know what they were going to do. The dredretches were relentless. There was no-one left to control them, to pull them out if their numbers were depleting. They would simply attack and attack until the end. But there were too many of them. The huntsmen couldn’t win.
She turned. It was Alba, calling from further into Floodwood. She beckoned Ottilie over. Ned followed and Leo and Skip hurried after him.
Maeve was waiting for them beneath the twisted trunk of a viperspine tree.
The moment she set eyes upon Maeve, Ottilie’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Bill?’ she hissed through her fingers. There hadn’t been a second to think, and she realised she didn’t know what had happened to him.
Maeve offered a small smile and pointed upwards. Bill was in the branches, clinging on for dear life. ‘He’s a bit distressed,’ she said. ‘He didn’t take well to riding on the back of Skip’s horse.’
‘She rides fast,’ said Bill.
Ottilie watched him twisting his hands around a scaly branch, and released the breath she hadn’t realised she was holding.
‘I’ve had an idea,’ said Alba urgently. ‘Do you still have that vial?’
Ottilie nodded. She had completely forgotten that she had that horrible potion with her. She’d been carrying the sleepless witch around in her pocket.
‘Is anybody good at carving?’ said Alba. ‘Wood,’ she added, in response to their confused silence.
‘I am,’ said Ned. ‘But what … is now really the time?’
‘I need you to make something that makes a sound,’ said Alba. ‘Just a whistle is fine. Quick as you can.’
Ottilie caught a glint of amusement in his tired eyes. ‘All right,’ he said. And, asking no questions, he cut a fat twig off the nearest branch, removed the smallest knife strapped to his forearm, and got to work.
‘So … what’s happening?’ said Ottilie, sliding down against the trunk of a tree. She regretted it as soon as she pressed her back to the bark. The full weight of her exhaustion settled upon her like layers of thick mud.
‘We’re making, sort of … a new pipe,’ said Alba. ‘Maeve thinks she can use Whistler’s potion to form … or remake something to control the dredretches.’
Ottilie tried to smile. She was too tired to feel impressed. Her mind was slow, her focus slipping. It was a strange thing, sitting on the edge of a battle, watching Ned carve a whistle.
Skip cleared her throat, staring between the stationary figures. ‘This is very clever and everything,’ she said. ‘But if I’m not needed …’ She waved vaguely back towards the action.
‘What she said,’ said Leo, reaching for his bow.
There was a ghastly shriek from the skies and an enormous shape passed overhead.
Leo ducked down next to Ned. ‘Nice whittling, mate,’ he said, gripping his arm. ‘Might want to hurry up there.’
Ned’s expression danced between irritation and amusement, but he stayed focused on his work and didn’t respond. He rested the twig on a damp log and began knocking on the surface of the bark.
Leo and Skip left Floodwood, but Ottilie stayed – partly because she was so tired she wasn’t sure she could move, but mostly because she knew exactly what to do with the whistle Ned was carving – and it had to be a flyer to do it.
Finally, Ned finished. It looked like a chipped twig, but he blew into the end and a shrill whistle sounded.
‘Perfect,’ said Maeve, taking it from him. She lay it flat on her palm. For a moment nothing happened, but with her exhale, the whistle lifted up to hover in mid-air. Maeve carefully unstoppered the vial and tipped the dark, shimmering contents over the wood. It was not quite liquid – more like vapour or smoke, but weighted.
Maeve’s eyes flicked back and forth under her eyelids and her hands shook as dark tendrils curled around the twig, slithering through the gaps Ned had carved and settling into veins of deepest black.
With a shaky breath, Maeve opened her eyes and said, ‘Do you have your ring?’
Ottilie slipped it from her thumb and passed it over. She remembered Whistler saying no-one could wield something so evil without protection.
Maeve held the ring in one hand and the pipe in the other, closing her eyes. Nothing happened.
There was yelling far off. A mord bellowed. Ottilie heard the crack and rumble of stone as another piece of the wall tumbled down. Her heart beat faster.
‘Maeve?’ she said, trying not to sound impatient.
‘It’s not working!’ said Maeve, clenching her fist over Ottilie’s ring.
Ottilie spotted glowing eyes in the forest behind them. She could hear growls and hissing and thundering hooves. Overhead, she caught the unforgettable shriek of a kappabak, like a thousand bats all screeching at once.
Ottilie got to her feet. She, Ned and Alba gripped their weapons.
Maeve closed her eyes again.
‘Maeve, we have to get out of here!’ said Ottilie.
Above them, Bill disappeared higher up the tree. Ottilie watched his webbed foot slip behind the fish-scale leaves, his pale fur catching the trapped light. She wondered if it would be the last she would ever see of him. Blinking, she banished the thought and reached for the whistle, but Maeve snatched it away.
‘No-one should use it like this. I don’t know what will happen,’ she said, her eyes wild.
Ottilie understood, but there was nothing to be done. ‘I’ll wear my ring,’ she said. ‘It might help.’
‘What are you talking about?’ said Ned, looking between them.
But Ottilie didn’t explain. There was no time to argue. Something jumped out of the undergrowth and Ned gripped his knife and dived.
Ottilie grabbed the whistle and, this time, Maeve didn’t stop her.
Whistler had wanted to punish the king. Everyone else was just collateral damage. But the dredretches … Voilies had said it, when they were training for the fledgling trials: it is their primary instinct to attempt to tear us apart. Monsters from the underworld, called to the surface by acts of true evil. Their only purpose: to destroy, to rip out hearts.
It had to end.
Ottilie lifted her fingers to her lips and whistled loudly for Nox. Maeve stepped back, offering a blink that Ottilie knew meant, good luck. Alba’s wide eyes had filled with tears. Ottilie hugged her and whispered, ‘You’re a genius,’ before hurrying out of Floodwood.
The wingerslink appeared from beyond a turret and landed with a great spraying of mud. Ottilie leapt into the saddle, lifted the whistle to her lips and blew.
Pain flared, like ashes flicked in her face. It was wrong. She felt sick all the way to the tips of her fingers, which twitched on the whistle, aching to drop it.
The sound that came out was not the thin squeal Ned had made, but the otherworldly song of the dredretches. It wasn’t loud, but it thrummed through her veins, filling her head and weaving in and out of a dance with her breath. Above the beat, air shrieked and scraped like claws on steel.
They flew south, across the lower grounds and over the boundary wall. Ottilie didn’t need to look. She blew again and could feel them following. They were tethered to her by the song. She felt stretched and weighted, as if she might crack open and leak the sickness into the sky.
They passed between snowy peaks and veils of mountain mist stained blossom-pink. Nox settled on the edge of the cliffs looking out over the sea. The sun was sinking low in the west. Squinting against the golden spears, Ottilie blew again into the whistle. The pain worsened. She felt unsteady in the saddle, but held herself upright.
They were gathering around her. She could see their shadows out of the corner of her eye. Ottilie fixed her foggy gaze upon the sea, watching the water darken to midnight as dusk folded in.
She tore her eyes from the ocean and twisted to watch them come, like distorted shadows crawling, flying and slithering along the coast, across pebbled beaches and towards the edge of the cliff. They were as quick as ever, but absent somehow – lost in a dreamy trance.
She waited until the approaching numbers thinned to near nothing. She knew it could not be all of them. Some were slower, or perhaps too far away to hear the call. She shut her eyes and prayed that this would work. It had to work. She blew again, nudging Nox to leap.
Nox arced over the edge of the cliff, plummeting towards the crashing waves. It felt like freefalling. Ottilie clutched the saddle, clinging on for dear life. Air roared in her ears. Nox spread her wings wide and pulled out of the dive a whisker from the dark sea.
Ottilie gasped and flattened forwards as Nox shot upwards and curled in a vast circle to face the beasts behind. She stared at the clifftop, transfixed by the dark shapes tumbling over the edge.
Ottilie felt a tug and slipped into blackness. A strange knowing came over her. She had more control because the whistle was not limited by the protective charm. She could reach more of them – call them into the waves from far away.
She cast out her sight and saw them entering the ocean over the cliffs at Richter and Jungle Bay. Ottilie didn’t know if she was witnessing or commanding, but felt sure it would come to pass.
She blew the whistle once more and this time felt a dreadful lightness. She seemed to disconnect from her own body, but she could still feel them … Step by step they entered the ocean: some slipping in from the beaches, some leaping from the cliffs. Few of the winged dredretches took flight. Most just dropped into the sea, lost in the call of the song.
A scattering of jagged shapes approached in the air, drifting in like visible nightmares. Nox circled and swept low, her claws dragging in the water, and behind, low over the salty sea, the dredretches began to flail. They tipped and dragged. The waves tossed and snatched, tearing them from the sky.
Twilight veiled the coastline, but Ottilie knew there were more to come. She lifted the whistle, but it was a struggle to hold it steady. The sickness had her.
Nox flew higher again, circling back towards land. Ottilie’s head spun. Something seemed to close around her throat. Her shoulders shuddered and her neck bent under the weight of her skull. Her head lolled. She felt the whistle slip from her grip and plummet into the waves.
Nox growled. Ottilie heard it distantly, and somewhere deep down she knew it was because of her. The wingerslink lost height. Ottilie was slipping sideways. Nox was speeding towards land. There was still ocean below – she could feel its salty breath.
Ottilie tipped and tumbled down, sinking beneath the waves.
She couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe.
Something gripped her in its jaws.
A searing pain in her shoulder.
Everything was black.