39 
Black clouds were gathering in the south and an emerald glow sharpened the sun. From the air, Ottilie could see where the land thinned and the ocean cut in on either side. Richter was perched on a cliff on the north-facing shore. Preddy had told Ottilie that its coastal location made it more peaceful than Fiory, the fort safeguarded by sea air. She had an image of Richter in her mind, shaped by stories from Preddy’s time there. That picture would be forever replaced by the scene that awaited them below.
What was left of Richter’s boundary wall stretched in honeycombed fragments. Dredretches barrelled, clambered, slithered and swept through the gaps. Ottilie could see Gracie on the back of the white wyler, cutting through huntsmen, knocking them aside and slashing with her knives. Whistler’s winged form was perched on a turret, screeching into the cloud-threatened sky.
She wondered if there were more bone singers with bloodbeasts. Gracie could control the wylers, and Nicolai the shanks. What other dredretches roaming this battlefield were being controlled by one of Whistler’s minions? Perhaps they were tucked away safely somewhere, in trances. Not Gracie, though. Gracie wanted to play.
There was no time to get Ned somewhere safe. He simply clung to Leo, pale but determined. Fiory’s mounts were just beginning to fight their way through the field below the Fort. Richter’s shepherd pack dashed here and there. It didn’t look as if the footmen had arrived yet. Ottilie could see flyers from all three stations, dipping and diving, picking up injured huntsmen from within the battered walls and flying them to safer ground.
With a whistle and a spark, a flare spiralled out of the sky. Nox rolled and Ottilie swung her cutlass, slicing it in half. Swinging upside down, she saw a streak of white. It was Gracie, her knives flashing in the stormy light. Fury blazed at the sight of her. Nox soared in a wide circle, sweeping down to cut across her path. The white wyler tossed its head high and shrieked. Nox met it with a roar so powerful Ottilie felt as if she were roaring too.
The wyler’s white fur was caked with mud and blood, both red and black. Gracie looked tired, but very alive. Her pale eyes shone with excitement as she flashed Ottilie her first true smile.
The wyler bent and lunged at Nox, but Nox leapt overhead. Swatting with her claws, she knocked the white wyler down, and Gracie was unseated. Scrambling back up onto its back, she threw a knife. Ottilie reeled backwards and Nox tucked in her wing, the blade passing by without contact.
The wyler changed direction faster than Ottilie’s eyes could catch. Before she knew what was happening, Gracie and the wyler were fleeing northward.
Nox leapt into the air, catching the wind, and soon cut in front once more. Gracie was panting. She had mud smeared on her face from the fall.
Neither moved. They had broken free of the fighting, and the crashing of waves against rock half-drowned any sound. A cool salty breeze brushed across Ottilie’s face, clearing her head. They were perilously close to the cliff’s edge and Gracie had the higher ground. She saw Bayo’s knife, clutched in Gracie’s right hand, and spat, ‘What happened to you?’
Gracie didn’t respond. The white wyler snarled.
‘You’re from Longwood, aren’t you?’ Ottilie pressed, vying for time, trying to think of a way out. ‘The camps near the Narroway border?’
The wyler leapt and Gracie lashed out with a knife. Ottilie flattened herself against Nox, just missing the blade. Nox swiped out with her claws and the wyler dodged, losing its prime position.
‘How long have you been like this?’ She wanted to know, to understand. She didn’t want to believe that Gracie was just bad.
Nox had the wyler right up against the edge. Ottilie remembered the rumour that Gracie had pushed someone off a cliff near Scarpy Village. She should end it right here. Gracie was dangerous, too dangerous. She could let Nox do it. She could feel the wingerslink’s energy flowing forwards, wanting to attack. Even if Ottilie tried to stop her, Nox wouldn’t necessarily listen. She could just allow it.
Gracie couldn’t hide her unease, but a knowing look mingled with the doubt. ‘You can’t do it, can you?’ she said, glancing backwards, towards the drop. ‘How long have I been like this?’ She offered a slight shrug. ‘I could tell you the first thing I remember, if you like.’ Her lips twitched. She knew Ottilie couldn’t end it.
‘I remember when my parents set a fire,’ said Gracie. ‘I remember the building lighting up. It looked like the end of the world.’
‘A fire? Where?’ said Ottilie. Her stomach dropped. She didn’t want to hear Gracie say it.
‘I think it was Scarpy Village,’ said Gracie, innocently. She loved this – taunting Ottilie, knowing she wouldn’t do anything about it.
‘The villagers were very upset. It turns out there was a mother and her young daughter inside. The woman got badly burnt and the villagers attacked our camp. We all got separated after that,’ said Gracie, almost lazily. ‘Still nothing?’ She cocked her head. ‘I don’t know why she’s so interested in you.’
Ottilie could hear the bitterness in her voice.
‘You don’t have it in you,’ said Gracie. ‘Though after the binding, that won’t matter anymore, everything darkens once you’re bound.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Ottilie spat.
‘She wanted to give you a really good one, too,’ said Gracie. ‘She had the kappabak all lined up. She’s not like me.’ She patted the white wyler. ‘She can control any of them. She dropped it in your path to see what would happen. All you need is a mortal wound from a dredretch to get it started, but you and Leo destroyed the poor thing before it could harm you. Though she only found that more impressive.’
Ottilie was sickened, her senses slack. The sound of the waves faded into a fold of her mind. Whistler had intended to bind her to the kappabak?
‘She said you were wasting away as a shovelie,’ said Gracie. ‘But then you became a huntsman, the first girl ever … she wanted to see how that would play out.’
Ottilie wanted to tell Gracie to shut up, but couldn’t find the words. Her curiosity had the reins and refused to let her move.
‘Why can she control them? What is she?’ said Ottilie.
Gracie smiled. ‘Interested, are you? She’s like Maeve. She’s a fiorn, or she was one. She’s a little different now that she sings to them.’
‘Sings to them?’ said Ottilie. ‘What are you talking about?’
Gracie looked like she was dangling a bit of eel above a hungry wingerslink. ‘She can make it so they won’t hurt you at all.’ She pulled a delicate chain out from beneath her shirt, something sharp dangling from the end. ‘Of course, I don’t need the protection anymore, but it’s useful for other things –’
‘What do you mean she sings to them?’
‘She summons them,’ said Gracie, as if Ottilie was too thick to comprehend it. ‘Viago the Vanquisher was her father. He broke the promise and the dredretches came. That was the Laklands, of course, a hundred years ago – but that’s where she got the idea.’
Viago the Vanquisher’s daughter – the one they called the clawed witch. Whistler had told them that story herself. Ottilie could remember it as if it were yesterday. In the Bone Tower, she hadn’t said the dredretches came from the Laklands – she’d said they were here because of the Laklands, because that was where she got the idea. Her father had broken a promise and doomed a kingdom, and now she was doing the same, in her own way, for her own reasons …
‘Why,’ said Ottilie. ‘Why is she doing this?’
Gracie merely smiled. ‘Vengeance.’
‘Why? What happened to her?’
‘I didn’t say it was vengeance for herself,’ said Gracie. ‘Enough of this.’ She bared her teeth. The white wyler lunged and Nox skirted to the side, catching its flesh with her claws. She heard Gracie yowl in pain as Nox rose into the sky.
Ottilie looked to the ocean and felt a change in the wind.
For a little while the world seemed clean, the dredretch stench not yet poisoning the southerly breeze. The air felt thicker, warmer, not with the sickness but with a storm. Nox rose higher and higher. Ottilie knew she had to go back down, but she just needed a few moments to breathe.
Below, she saw Gracie pause and stare up at the sky. Thunder rumbled overhead. That was what they needed. They needed rain! Whistler had chosen a poor day for a battle. Her bone singers were supposed to be able to predict the weather, but perhaps the sky kept secrets too.
Perched on a crumbling parapet of the boundary wall, the monstrous bird screeched, her eyes flashing with an impossible black light that Ottilie seemed to feel rather than see. The dredretches shrieked in response, and a flock of jivvies billowed like a ghastly, tumbling cloud. Under Whistler’s control, they didn’t turn on each other. They moved as one, engulfing the huntsmen in a vast shroud of shadow and feathers.