The Ragwitch (14 page)

The figure was man-like, but seemed to be made of constantly swirling sea-patterns. He shimmered fluidly, and small waves moved back and forth across his burly chest, while different colored currents swirled up and down his arms. And when Paul looked at his face, all he could see was the deep, blue-black expanse of the open sea.

Obviously, Paul had been caught by the Water Lord—fished up from the black waters. He hoped the Water Lord wasn’t going to do to him what fishermen did to fish.

“So,” boomed the Water Lord, deep vibrations buzzing in the bones behind Paul’s ears. “You are Paul.”

“Yes,” whispered Paul, puzzled as to where the sound was coming from. The Water Lord’s face was still featureless, and the sound seemed to come from all around.

“Why have you come here?” asked the Water Lord. He leaned towards Paul, and the boy felt the terrible force in him; the waves and currents that roiled his surface hinted at a vast energy within like some huge coiled spring.

“I came to ask for your help,” said Paul slowly. He was really uncertain now. The Water Lord’s lack
of a face was strange, inhuman, and far more threatening than the giant, bearded visage of the Master of Air.

“My help…against the Ragwitch…” boomed the voice again. It was so low and loud it was starting to give Paul a headache, and made it hard for him to concentrate.

“Yes…against the Ragwitch,” answered Paul. He struggled to think of a reason for the Water Lord to help him. “She will try to destroy the streams and rivers…all the fish and things in the water…”

“Yes,” came the Water Lord’s reply, a flat agreement that she would try these things.

“The Wise said that I could harm her—stop her,” said Paul. “If you and the other Elementals help me.”

The Water Lord said nothing to this, but more waves broke on his surface, and Paul felt as if he were watching some sort of inner struggle between the conflicting natures of the Water Lord—between the sea which provides, and the sea which destroys. Then the waves quietened, and the Water Lord stood completely still. As Paul watched nervously, a bright blue tear welled out where his left eye should have been. It hung from his face for a brief second, was caught by a current, and spun off into the water towards Paul. Without even thinking, he caught it in his outstretched hand.

It was surprisingly solid, almost like jelly, and
warm as well—even hot. Paul flipped it from hand to hand, like a hot biscuit, while it cooled. Strangely, with the teardrop in his hand, he’d almost forgotten where he was—if only for a second.

The booming voice reminded him quickly, with a sharp stabbing pain in his head, as the Water Lord said: “That is The Blood. Keep it with you always. Now—
leave here!
”

The vibrations from the last words were so severe that Paul was stunned for a moment. Disoriented, he floundered about, looking for the light-stalk fish, a dolphin, or any guide to get out.

But none of the light-fish came any closer, and as Paul looked back, he saw black waves rising across the surface of the Water Lord. Each wave seemed to disrupt his man-like form, and his whole shape was becoming fuzzy at the edges, as if it were about to mold itself into something else—and whatever the Water Lord was going to become, the process was very disturbing.

Paul started to swim away, The Blood safely stowed with The Breath in his leather pouch, but he couldn’t help slowing to look back again, which was a big mistake. For the Water Lord had completely lost his human shape, and was now a whirling mass of black and writhing water—another whirlpool that was growing with every second. Paul didn’t need another look, and struck out and up, swimming furiously. Thoughts raced
through his mind, of the fisherman’s shack at Donbreye, and Deamus saying “the sea…knows cruelty as well as kindness…”

The phrase was still running through his head when the black waters reached him, caught him, and once more swirled him down to the darkest waters of the Water Lord’s deep crevasse.

H
IGH ON A
narrow headland, which thrust out into the sea, the setting sun cast long red lines of light across the branches of the trees like trails of fire. Julia leaned against one of the sun-fired trees, and looked out through a break in the forest to the sea beyond. The scent of salt was very strong, and if she closed her eyes she could almost feel that it was her family’s favorite stretch of coast, and she was standing near the front of a rented beach house on the first day of the holidays.

But when she opened her eyes, there was the great red setting sun, the trees bright as flames, and it was Mirran sitting nearby—not Paul. With a start, Julia realized that what with all her own troubles, she hadn’t thought of Paul for ages. The last time she’d seen him was when the Ragwitch
had been taking her over—and he’d run out of the bedroom. With a pang, she hoped he was all right. Paul would miss her dreadfully, and worry too. Julia realized that she missed Paul as well—his comforting, loyal presence, always ready for whatever they were going to do next. She wished he was there with her, and then wished that she was with him. Safe…back at home.

Mirran interrupted her thoughts by getting to his feet, mail-shirt clinking. “We must move on,” he said wearily. “If Anhyvar is anywhere, she will be here. I am certain that this is the headland to the north of Sleye…though…it doesn’t seem quite right.”

“Even She can’t remember exactly,” said Julia, “so I suppose it isn’t exactly the same. You know, how you think that somewhere is just as it is in your head, and when you go there, it’s not?”

“Yes,” muttered Mirran. “I believe you have it. Now, we had better not talk as we walk. These trees could hide Gwarulch or other of Her creatures—and I’d rather surprise them than be surprised.”

Julia nodded, and drew her wand, just to be on the safe side. Mirran hefted the stick he’d torn from one of the trees, and moved off. Julia followed, noticing how quietly he could move, despite the odd clink from his mail-shirt.

Nearer the end of the headland, the trees thinned out, and a wind rose up from the sea, cold and moisture-laden. Small bushes replaced the
trees, and jagged rocks thrust up from the ground in clumps. The headland rose up too, and as Julia climbed, she noticed the earth was red beneath her feet. A few yards on, white shells and broken shards confirmed her fears.

The hill on the headland was another midden.

And at the top of the midden, Julia suddenly knew, would be Anhyvar, the woman Lyssa had told her to find. But Mirran said that Anhyvar was the woman who became North-Queen, and then Ragwitch. What if this was all the wrong memory, and it was the Ragwitch at the top of the midden—somehow herself inside herself? She might be up there now, the doll’s everpresent smile split to show the shark-like teeth, and pudgy three-fingered hands reaching out to pull Julia into her evil embrace forever…

Without realizing it, Julia slowed at these thoughts, and with the last one, she stopped altogether. For the first time in her life, she couldn’t go on, and something snapped deep inside her. Dropping onto her heels, she grabbed herself around the knees and tried to curl into the smallest ball she could.

The next thing she knew was Mirran’s voice somewhere near her left ear.

“What’s wrong, child?” he asked, concern in his voice. “Are you hurt?”

Julia didn’t want to answer, but she heard her own voice babbling about the midden, and the
Ragwitch waiting. But she felt that she was really drawing away, to some far-off place. Mirran kept talking to her, but the words couldn’t travel the distance.

For what seemed like forever, Julia’s head whirled with all the images of her time with the Ragwitch: from their emergence in the Sea Caves, the trip to the Spire, Oroch’s unearthing, to the slaughter of Bevallan and the poor Glazed men and women of the Namyr Gorge. But most of all, her thoughts went back to that single second in the Midden, when she’d first seen that scrap of cloth sticking out of the unearthly nest.

But Mirran kept talking, and gradually Julia began to listen to what he was saying, and her sobbing ceased, and she became aware that Mirran was talking about Anhyvar.

“She was so eager to find new Magic,” he said. “At first, only for healing, as the Patchwork King had decreed there would be no other Magic used in the war. But her enthusiasm went further, and she threw herself into her researches. She so desperately wanted to end the war, to put a stop to all the pain and hurt of so many people.

“For many years while the war dragged on, she spent the summer with the army, as a healer for the wounded and sick. In winter, she prowled the libraries of Yendre, talked with others of the Magi, and consulted with the Stars.

“Then one day, she came to me at Caer Calbore,
where the army was resting after a hard-fought month of clearing the North-Creatures from the lands around the Awgaer upspring. She was happy, excited, more enthusiastic than ever. She told me that there had been an Age of Magic before the Patchwork King gathered all the reigns of Magic to himself—and that she had uncovered the secret to its hiding, and would be able to unleash it at her will. Furthermore, she spoke of the Stone Knights of the Angarling, waiting under the sea at Sleye. They would be the perfect means of bringing the war to a rapid end.

“I asked if she had talked of this to the Wise, or any other of the Magi, and she answered no—she was afraid they might take the path to the Patchwork King to warn him. And jealous of other powers, he might forbid her.

“Foolishly, I accepted this—but later, when I realized exactly what Magic Anhyvar had found, I knew that, even then, the first cold tendrils of that evil power had begun to warp her nature, and wrap around her heart.

“So, she left for Sleye, with a small escort of soldiers, and my blessings and hope.”

Mirran paused and looked at Julia. She raised her head, and uncurled a little, before nodding at him to go on.

“I never saw her again after that, save at the fall of the Citadel in Yendre, when it was only her shape that remained. I heard what happened at
Sleye from one of her escort—the only one who escaped. He was sore wounded, and raving, but he spoke of her conjurings, on the headland above Sleye. He said that she had cast her spells, and was waiting, when a vast black door appeared, that shook and rumbled as it opened. Anhyvar was drawn within, screaming and fighting, and the door swung shut and disappeared with a rolling clap of thunder.

“They were good soldiers, and despite their fear, they waited and searched about the place.

“Anhyvar returned in the dark of early morning. The soldier who told me the tale said she came upon the camp without warning, and struck them with a spell that held them fast. He was on watch, a little way from the camp, and so escaped—after he saw that she was no longer the kindly Healer-Witch they had escorted. For she Glazed those soldiers into mindless servants, and laughed as she worked. It was the laugh that made the soldier run.

“And the rest, I think, you know. She woke the Angarling, and perverted them to the service of evil, during which time I did not move against her, much to my later sorrow. Then, she went north, subjected the Gwarulch Elders and Meepers to her rule, and declared herself to be the North-Queen.

“So, if it is Anhyvar we shall find atop this Hill of Bones, it should be a human woman, whose major failing was a blindness to the faults of anything that could bring an end to the war.”

“She doesn’t sound too scary,” whispered Julia, wiping her nose with a muddy handkerchief. “I hope you’re right.”

“I hope so too,” said Mirran. “My memories of Anhyvar were befouled and tainted by what she became and my own bitterness. I would like to see even a memory of her true self again.”

He paused, and helped Julia up, before adding, in a voice so soft it almost passed Julia by, “We were to be married—when there was peace. We both wanted the war to end too much…and not just for the people…”

Paul trod water again, his tired arms feebly moving beside him. His whole body felt strained and stretched from his efforts to swim up and out of the black depths.

But no matter how far he swam, and how far up, there seemed no end to the awful darkness. Paul had begun to think that it moved with him, and he could swim a thousand kilometers and it would still be there.

Worse, every time he could swim no farther and even treading water was too much, he sank down for what seemed an eternity. It was rather a nice feeling, slowly sinking. It made Paul sleepy, and it would be very easy for him to give up and go to sleep.

He would have too, except for one thing: the water-breathing spell. Paul couldn’t remember
exactly what Sevaun had said, but he thought the spell would only last for the Festival day—and that day must be nearly over.

Drifting ever downwards, Paul asked himself what Julia would do, or Aleyne…or even Quigin. But it was no use. He was sure that they would find some way out, but he couldn’t think of what they might do. After all, he was up against Magic, as well as being on the very bottom of the sea.

Magic…thought Paul suddenly. I’ve got Magic too…

He carefully opened his pouch, thrusting in a hand to make sure nothing would fall and be whisked away by currents. The Blood, still a ball of warmish jelly, met his fingers first, but he pushed it aside to grab the feather that was the Breath. It was of the Air—perhaps it could help him get back to the surface.

From the moment it left his pouch, Paul knew it was a good idea. The feather radiated a soft blue light that relieved the darkness of much of its terror. And it felt buoyant, and seemed somehow to be bigger than it used to be.

In fact, it
was
bigger, Paul realized—and growing—stretching out tremendously, and with every surge of growth, Paul felt it rising up, carrying him with it. Within a few minutes, it was a meter long, and speeding up like a bubble in a glass of soft drink, Paul hanging on with all his remaining strength.

Seconds later, they burst out into the cavern of the light-fishes, but the feather didn’t stop. For an awful moment, Paul thought they were going to rise to the roof of the cavern and be trapped there like a real bubble, but the feather changed direction, and sped for the weed-strewn gateway.

Then, like a giant’s shout, a voice boomed through the water, its rage and anger shaking Paul right through to his bones. Looking back, he saw the black whirlpool spinning and whirling at great speed—and out of it came finned shapes, all over ten meters long, with skins of dusty white. Paul knew at once that those were no dolphins, but great white sharks.

The sharks snapped at the light-fish, and wove back and forth like hounds sniffing out a scent. Then they swung their long heads towards Paul, and he imagined their hungry, single-minded eyes focusing on him—for in unison, they all curved around to charge directly at the racing feather and the boy.

“Come on! Come on!” shrieked Paul, as he felt the feather slowing to negotiate the weeds. He swarmed farther up the feather, and started urging it along as if it were a horse. Behind him, the sharks didn’t even try to avoid the weed-barriers. They just ploughed right through, and seemed hardly slowed at all. Then the feather was out of the weed, and in the blackness of the trench. It seemed to pick up speed again, but Paul could no
longer see the sharks. He kept looking back and thinking he saw a flash of white in the feather’s bluish glow, and every time his heart beat even faster, till he felt that it was shivering a thousand times a second, and not really beating at all.

Those few minutes in the total blackness of the abyss, never knowing when a shark would catch up, were among the worst in Paul’s life—but there was also an exhilarating, exciting feeling in the sheer speed of the jetting feather; and Paul felt less afraid when he saw the first smattering of light above, and no white shapes behind.

They broke the surface like a flying fish, Paul holding his breath as they hurtled over ten meters into the air, and then back into the water again. In that arcing flight, Paul had caught sight of two things: land, and fins breaking the water. Both were about five hundred meters away, though the fins were getting closer every second.

As they sank below the surface again, Paul felt confident of continuing to outdistance his pursuers—until the feather began to shrink in his grasp, and he had to start kicking to keep from sinking. In a few seconds, the Breath had shrunk to its normal size, and Paul was swimming at his own slow pace. He frantically struck out towards the shore, occasionally sticking his head out of the water to check the direction—and finding he still couldn’t breathe the air. He didn’t look back—he knew the danger of slowing, even for a second.
Besides, it was better not to know, he thought—better just to be taken without warning.

Just then, something did touch his foot, and he screamed and looked back—straight at a dolphin’s snout.

Relief flooded into him as the dolphin surged alongside. Without needing to be prompted, Paul grabbed the dolphin’s fin, and it accelerated away towards the shore—very directly, without the high-spirited jinking and leaping the dolphins had displayed before. Obviously it knew about the sharks.

Relieved of the effort of swimming, Paul took a long look behind—and there they were. Four long, fearsome shapes bearing down towards him, minds set on eating. They seemed very fast.

Paul clutched the dolphin even tighter, closed his eyes, and pressed his cheek against the dolphin’s comforting side—so he missed seeing its prodigious leap out of the water and onto a long green wave that was curling into the beach.

He opened his eyes when he felt the extra burst of speed, and the foam rushing past his face, as dolphin and boy surfed onto the beach and slid three meters up the wet sand, straight to the feet of Quigin and Sevaun.

Paul goggled at them stupidly, and made sucking fish-like motions with his mouth, choking on the air—till Sevaun touched his nose and mouth with her seashell wand, and he could breathe again, sob with relief, and lie in the sand next to the beached dolphin.