Sarah Driver - Storm

I raise my hand to trace my scar with my fingers, but my spirit edges just whisper against each other. I’m a hunted child. Small wonder Da tried to keep it from me.

The memory barges close – the night just one full moon ago, when slow, stealthy footsteps creaked through the snow behind me. I half-turned, as a salty hand wrapped around my mouth.

‘Fangtooth!’ boomed Da’s kelp-rich voice, stronger than his weakened body. ‘Release my child.’ The Protector’s spear-warriors surrounded us. Me and my brother were pulled from danger, but not before a blade against my neck nicked a tear in the skin.

Axe-Thrower, Stag’s wretched first mate, had hunted through the shadows of the stronghold, trying to get to me and Sparrow. Now she’s locked in Leopard’s dungeon, a hostage claimed by no one. And as for Da – he’s acting guilt-stung that he weren’t better at protecting me now we’re finally back together. For a while he kept saying sorry that Axe attacked me, like it was his fault.

Now I know the Fangtooth weren’t acting alone. That her attack was ordered by someone else. And that the attack ent really over. I keep my eyes on the letter as I read the runes again and again. Then Leo tenses, crumpling the parchment in her fingers, and twists to stare behind her.

I must’ve drifted too close and touched her – I can see how the skin at the back of her neck’s gone goose-pimpled. Suddenly I remember that she’s a dream-dancer, too.

‘Who’s there?’ she whispers.

I flick towards the door, squeeze through and soar down the stairs, spirit-heart weighing heavy. Most times, I can find a way to get Da on my side. But this time he’s never gonna let me go with the others to the Tribe-Meet. Not in a thousand moons. I stare up at the dark stone roof of the passageway as I fly. I feel like the walls of this stronghold are closing in, and if I ent careful, I’ll be buried alive.

Thunder grumbles, restless as a shark. I sit cross-legged on my bed, breathing the storm-stink that’s trickling in through the stones of Hackles. Thaw-Wielder breathes it with me, her eyes shining with added wildness.

The stink of a storm is the only thing that makes me feel free, these days. It kindles the flame in my blood. Stormlight flutters against the walls and I feel like I’m underwater with electric eels.

Crow sits in a chair, greasing his boots. ‘Could you give it a rest with all the sniffing?’

I tut. He don’t get it, Thaw.

She shuffles her feathers and spits in his direction. Soft-shell two-leg notknownotknowthings! Not REAL winged one.

‘And stop talking about me to Thaw! It ain’t fair.’

I stick out my lower lip. The poor bab don’t think it’s fair!

Thaw chortles.

Crow gifts me his danger-face.

I raise my brows. ‘Alright, don’t scorch your lugholes over it!’

The thunder cracks the sky apart, loud as huge iron drums being thrown around. Crow gasps, but I grin. ‘You should try hearing that when you’re out at sea.’

He scowls. In the attic rooms above, claws begin to scrabble. The rats are spooked.

Boots clank past my chamber door. I leap off my bed and rush to look – riders march along the passageway, heading to the caves to prepare their draggles to fly to the Tribe-Meet. Other preparations have been happening, too – spear-sharpening and armour-mending and gathering together of things to trade, like pots of squidge ink and stinking draggle furs and wooden snow-goggles and eggs scooped from the bogs. I’ve been shut out of all of it.

I slam my door and jump back onto my bed. ‘I am proper blubber-bored! They’re leaving for the Tribe-Meet at the morning bell. How can Da force me to stay here?’

‘At least someone cares if you live or die!’ interrupts Crow, loudly. His tone makes Thaw flap herself into outrage, rasping and spitting, eyes bright.

‘Calm your feathers, you stupid bird,’ snaps Crow.

Trymakeme , hisses my hawk.

Crow stands up, eyes on his boots. ‘Mouse, I mean – can you blame your da, really? How addled would he have to be to let you roam the place now that the Withering’s set in and there’s a hunt for your skin?’

I pull at the loose threads in my blankets. ‘But no one gets how bad my bones are itching – itching! – to move, to rove, to do some thing!’

‘But maybe you can’t do anything, this time,’ he says more gently. ‘And maybe your da’s right – maybe, for once, you don’t have to. It ain’t your job.’

I shine my fierceness through the grime coating my skin. ‘I can’t do nothing – that’s never been what I do.’ And it never will be!

‘None of this is about you, though, is it?’ He picks up the pot of grease he used for his boots and turns away. ‘What would you do if you could leave Hackles, anyway?’

‘Um, let me ponder.’ I chew my cheek, pretending to think. ‘Go to the Tribe-Meet, then find the Opal, and save the world ?’

He sighs. ‘How about you start by coming to supper?’

‘Aye,’ I tell him, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘See you in the hall.’

Thaw oozes a low hiss at his turned back.

‘I heard that, Thaw-Wielder!’ he snaps, before leaving the room.

Thaw , I gabble quickly, my mind wheeling. I HAVE to go to that Tribe-Meet. Cos if I don’t prove myself to Da, how’s he ever gonna let me do anything, ever again? I’ve got to remind him what I can do. I’ll be back before he can blink, anyway! Thrills explode in my belly.

Thaw’s eyes glow, but her pipes spew tiny doubts. Two-leg girl danger times . . . hunthunthunt?

Aye, Thaw. But how’s any of them stupid lumberers gonna hunt me if I swap places with a Spearsister – like Pang? She’ll swap with me, I know it! And if the riders do a count they won’t find anyone extra . I block out a thought about what might happen if anyone needs me to throw a spear. Anything’s better than sitting here, ent it? And I might get to scratch around for snippets of news – or even CLUES – at the Meet.

She takes to the wing, soaring in circles around me until my hair’s stirred into a black cloud. Wild girl show them all!

Thaw wakes me before the morning bell. My limbs are stiff and cold-clumsy as I force myself out of bed. I tiptoe through the gloom to the draggle caves, pulling on the eelskin gloves Marshman Pike once gifted me to keep my fingers warm enough to wield weaponry. If I’m to be a Spearsister, I’ll have to be able to grip a spear, as well as draggle reins. I wait amongst tangled ropes of orangey draggle fur, huddled in a white goatskin cloak that Pangolin hung with iron storm-weights. Underneath clings the rune-spelled breastplate she loaned me, charged runes flickering across it like worms.

I watched the giant shaggy beasts shuffle their wings in their sleep. When the first riders clamour into the cave, heading to the tack room to don armour and fill saddle bags with supplies, I drift from my hiding place and begin sharpening Pangolin’s spear.

Once the whole stronghold is awake, Wilderwitches line the rocks outside. I edge as close as I can to the mouth of the cave and watch them standing, palms held up in front of them, trying to clear a sky-path through the storm. Their weather-magyk battles winds that thrash around like maddened beasts.

A rich smell catches in my nose and I turn to see a cook with greasy white hair passing cups of bone-broth among the riders. A mug finds its way into my hands, glowing with heat that I am more than heart-glad for. I stare down at myself in the gleaming surface of the broth. My eyes are painted from brows through to cheekbones with the black stripes of a Spearsister, an eagle-feather hood is pulled over my head and a raindrop cowl is moulded to my face.