22

Ambush

The next morning, Ottilie was on her way to the lower grounds when Alba and Skip hurried after her, down the icy path.

She scanned the frosted gardens to see if anyone was watching. ‘We can’t talk in the open, you know that,’ she said when they reached her. But up close, she saw the raw panic on their faces. Her breath caught. What was it? More animals with their hearts missing? Another wyler in the grounds? Someone injured … or worse?

‘Someone stole it,’ Skip spat, her neck visibly taut.

‘The book,’ said Alba, with tears in her eyes.

Ottilie’s chest tightened.

‘Someone took it,’ said Alba. ‘I was hiding it in the root cellar. And when I went to get it early this morning it was gone!’

She tried to muster her nerves. ‘But who … Maeve?’

‘She’s the only one, other than us and Gully, who knows about it,’ said Alba, hugging herself in the cold.

‘It’s her, Ottilie,’ said Skip, with venom on her tongue. ‘I know it. She’s the witch. Her or Gracie Moravec. Maeve could have taken it for her.’

‘We don’t know that, Skip.’ She was trying to stop Skip from acting rashly, but Ottilie knew it must have been Maeve.

‘We should report it!’ said Skip. ‘They’re looking for witches. It’s them. I know it. I knew they were evil. I could smell it!’

‘Skip, stop it,’ said Ottilie. ‘Listen to yourself. We can’t report it. Then they’ll find out we stole the book from Whistler. And we can’t just accuse … it’s so serious … we can’t accuse anyone without real proof.’ After everything that she had been through, it would take a lot for Ottilie to report someone to the directorate – and with all this talk of witches, it would be even worse now than it had been for Ottilie.

‘What should we do, Ottilie?’ asked Alba, her voice pleading.

‘I … I don’t know. I have to go, I’ve got a hunt. We’ll just talk to her. We have to ask her why she took it … try to get it back. But, please, just wait for me. I’ll be back around midday. Don’t do anything yet.’

She had to put it all aside for now. She certainly couldn’t tell Leo about any of it – for all she knew, he would run straight to the directorate to report the entire thing, including their break-in. She did her best to act normally as they saddled Maestro and soared out over the peaks beyond the fort.

In only a couple of hours, they had already felled six yotes – like nasty, winged mountain goats – and four highland morgies, paler in scale colour than the lowland kind. Now they were on the trail of a cinder snake in the icy caves behind Opal Tarn.

Cinder snakes were monstrous serpents with sharp-edged scales that leaked sizzling acid, which could corrode stone. It was an easy trail to follow, but a perilous path to walk on foot. Maestro waited for them out in the open air, while Ottilie and Leo wandered the track with caution in their tread.

The enormous red snake was curled up inside a narrow cavern. Ottilie raised her bow and was about to take the shot when Leo’s foot slipped and he stumbled with a scuffle and a gasp. The snake raised its sleepy head. Opening its cavernous jaw, it hissed and shot at them like a spear.

Leo, determined to salvage his dignity, knocked Ottilie’s arm so that her arrow flew off sideways, hitting the cave wall. He raised his own bow, landing his shot squarely between the serpent’s eyes.

‘Leo!’ growled Ottilie, as the cinder snake fell, sizzling and crumbling a few yards from where they stood. ‘That was mine!’

‘You probably would have missed,’ he said.

Ottilie was about to reply but something stopped her. Far away, back through the maze of tunnels, she could hear Maestro’s cry. She and Leo didn’t say a word; they both turned and sprinted back through the caves, leaping over pools of acid, slipping and stumbling on ice and collapsed rock.

They burst out into the sunlight to find Maestro stalking back and forth, tossing his head.

‘What’s wrong?’ said Leo, hurrying over to the distressed wingerslink.

Then Ottilie heard it, a dreadful cry – a song of agony, sorrow and terror.

Leo leapt up into the saddle and held out his arm. Ottilie gripped it and swung up behind him. Maestro launched into the air and circled the peak. Ottilie could see Opal Tarn below, crystalline blue and gleaming in the sunlight, the alpine plants glittering with frost at its edges.

Something was wrong – moving flashes of orange, and pools of ruby red. There were wylers, at least ten, and the white wyler at the centre, ripping and shaking, shredding something Ottilie didn’t want to see.

Movement caught her eye. There was a footman down there, fending five off at once with a spear. It was Scoot! Ottilie dug her heels in, urging Maestro to dive, but Leo was giving him different commands. The wingerslink growled with frustration and rocked in the air.

She felt as if her throat had filled with water. ‘Leo, Scoot’s down there!’ She could barely form the words. Her heart was pounding so hard it hurt.

Leo swore and Maestro dived so suddenly that she was thrown backwards. On landing, Maestro caught a wyler in his jaws and shook violently, chunks of rotten flesh and bone flying past them on the wind. Ottilie righted herself and aimed an arrow.

The wylers were distracted. Ottilie managed to hit one before it could dodge. Leo missed one. It scampered sideways and Scoot pierced it with his spear. There were two left, and the rest of the pack were approaching. Maestro swatted the nearest with his paw, giving Scoot a moment to dodge and grab on to the saddle.

Leo fended them off while Ottilie seized hold of Scoot’s quiver strap and pulled him up. He managed to squeeze in just behind her, but there was no time to strap him in.

Hot tears scalded her icy skin. ‘Hold on really tight!’ she said, her throat aching from swallowed sobs.

Scoot wrapped his arms around her middle. She could feel his whole body shaking.

Maestro leapt into the air.

‘Bayo,’ said Scoot, with a strangled cry.

Ottilie looked down and for a moment she seemed to forget how to breathe. Then it came, short and fast. It was making her dizzy. And she could hear her own pulse, like a drum beating too loud. There was nothing … no-one left down there, and the white wyler was still, head tipped to the sky, staring after them as they fled.

Ottilie, Gully and Preddy sat by Scoot’s bed in the infirmary. He was bruised and scratched and he’d twisted his ankle, but he was going to be all right. Ottilie felt an unknowable pain, all over her body, and at the same time a strange numb feeling, as if she had fallen into a story, not real life. She couldn’t imagine what Scoot was feeling.

‘We were on our way back from patrolling,’ he said, his voice choked. ‘It was supposed to be an easy one. There are never any dredretches around the tarn.’

Gully nodded, his jaw tight. Beside him Preddy was bone white.

‘He drew them off,’ said Scoot. ‘Told me to run. I shouldn’t … I should’ve …’

‘Don’t think that, Scoot,’ said Gully, in barely a whisper. ‘There were too many of them. If Ottilie and Leo hadn’t found you …’ he trailed off, unable to finish.

Ottilie’s eyes were fixed on Gully. He was a footman too. It could so easily have been him and Ned out there. She felt an unbearable rip, as if the invisible tether between them was being torn – she couldn’t lose him, not again.

‘It was an ambush,’ said Scoot, tears flooding his cheeks. ‘They were so organised. Like, like a hunt. Like they’d always hunted together … but that’s not how they work. They’re supposed to be loners. And dredretches, they don’t hunt us, they just attack, they’re not …’

Someone was behind this. She thought about the witch book, stolen that very morning. She knew who had it, and had seen the signs, but she had done nothing.

Ottilie couldn’t just sit. It hurt too much. She had to move, had to do something. She stood up on shaking legs and headed for the door.

‘Where are you going?’ Gully charged after her.

She didn’t know the answer until the words tumbled out. ‘I’m going to find Maeve Moth.’