The Ragwitch (16 page)

Two hundred kilometers to the north of Caer Follyn, Caer Calbore’s defenders were hard pressed. Already the inner and outer baileys had fallen—no wall or gate could stand against the Angarling, and where they smashed an opening, the Gwarulch and Glazed-Folk followed. Now, only the Great Keep still held out, and the Gwarulch were filling the ditch before it with logs and stones, bodies and earth, to make a causeway for the Angarling to cross and break the gate. Standing high on the wreckage of Caer Calbore’s outer walls, the Ragwitch watched Her servants work.

When the causeway was complete, She raised one hand to signal the attack—and then suddenly, She swayed, with Her fat, three-fingered hand clasped to the side of Her head. Around Her, the Angarling let out a great boom of noise, their deep-carved faces screwed up in mortal pain. Then the Ragwitch screamed, a scream of rage and hate that shattered the broken stones before Her, and sprayed the backs of the attacking Gwarulch with lethal splinters. She screamed on and on, and the rock splinters flew with deadly purpose among the ranks of the Gwarulch, who howled and ran aside, abandoning the attack. Only the Glazed-Folk kept
throwing themselves forward, cackling and screaming—to be feathered with arrows, or pushed back from the ramparts, their ladders breaking on the rocks below the keep.

Within a minute of Her scream, a tide of Gwarulch flowed away from their Mistress as She stood among the troubled Angarling, oblivious to the battle before Her. Only Oroch moved against the tide, the Gwarulch parting before him, despite their haste to slip away from Her awful scream.

When Oroch finally reached Her, the Ragwitch fell silent. He bowed, and squeaked fearfully, “What ails you, Mistress?”

The Ragwitch didn’t look at him, but Her mouth moved slightly, and Oroch thought he heard a voice long forgotten—the voice of a human Witch, in the times before either She or Oroch himself had entered the service of evil. And that voice said, soft in anguish, “So much pain…”

Then the Ragwitch looked at him, and She bared Her mouth still more, showing her shark-teeth in anger. “Why is the attack slowing?” She hissed, raising one puffy arm. “Why do the Gwarulch slink away?”

“You…you screamed,” began Oroch, but She cuffed him to the ground, spittle blowing as She spat, “Bring them back. I will lead the next attack Myself!”

She watched his black-bandaged form scamper across the rubble to the Gwarulch chieftains, and
wondered at the feelings that had so briefly tormented Her, feelings from the past She thought she had buried completely in the service of evil and the Nameless Realm. For a moment, She wondered if the girl had something to do with it. But Julia was there, tied to Her senses, silently watching the battle, and slowly fading into the Ragwitch’s grim mind.

Casting Her thoughts back to the attack, the Ragwitch raised an arm, and a black fog drifted from Her hand. Twirling it like a rope, She flicked it at a nearby Gwarulch. He yelped once, and slowly fell to the ground, life ebbing till he was no more than a windblown husk. Satisfied, She curled the fog back into Her hand in readiness, and, fixing Her gaze on the main gate of the keep, lumbered forward, the Angarling forming their protective ring around Her.

Watching through Her eyes, the twig-maid shook and shivered. She was already crumbling, becoming less of Julia, and more of a flame and rowan. Soon the Ragwitch might discover the true nature of the twig-maid, and then…She would look deep inside Herself for Julia.

As the Ragwitch screamed and the Gwarulch and Glazed-Folk attack on the castle faltered, the Castellan of Caer Calbore wearily made his way up the long stairs of the highest tower at the southern corner of the Keep. Atop this tower, the castle’s
Friend of Beasts spoke to his swiftest falcon, and the Castellan hurriedly scrawled the message she would carry.

“Send the falcon when the upper gate falls,” he said to the Friend of Beasts. “I hope she can outfly the Meepers.”

“She is sure of it,” said the Friend of Beasts, but the Castellan was already clanking back down the stairs, to prepare for what would certainly be the enemy’s last and successful attack. The Friend of Beasts watched the Castellan’s blood-streaked helmet disappear around the corner, then read the message before he tied it on. It said only, “Caer Calbore has fallen to the Ragwitch.”

Down below, he heard the hunting howls of the Gwarulch start again, and the thunder of Angarling against the gate—then the dreadful screaming of metal and wood, as the great steel-bound doors gave way, and the howling changed to a note of triumph above the clash and screech of weapons and the fading shouts of the defenders.

He gazed deep into the falcon’s eyes, giving her his last instructions—then he threw her into the sky with a flick of his wrist and watched her speed southwards for a moment, before he picked up his sword and started down, down towards the tumult of battle.

J
ULIA LOOKED AWAY
embarrassed when Mirran greeted Anhyvar but they didn’t fall into each other’s arms as she’d thought they would. Instead it was a formal greeting: Mirran took her hands, and raised them to his lips, and Anhyvar did likewise. Even so, it was obviously more than that, and Julia still felt she shouldn’t be looking. Then they just stood there—Mirran looking at Anhyvar, and she at him—till the wind came up, and Anhyvar’s hair blew across her face, and she had to use both hands to hold it back.

Julia was reminded of Lyssa’s long, silver hair, and the autumn leaf that would call her to them. She quickly checked that it was still in her shirt pocket. It was, so she pulled it out—but as the leaf cleared her pocket, the breeze picked up again, and it was twitched from her fingers and
twirled away up into the sky.

Julia watched it go with a startled immobility, and almost cried out for Mirran to try and catch it. But Lyssa had said, “Send it to the wind when you find Anhyvar…” And she had found Anhyvar—and Mirran.

She looked over to them, and saw that they were following the leaf’s path too. Anhyvar turned to Julia, and said, “You are calling the Rowan Lady—Lyssa?”

“Yes,” replied Julia. “At least, I hope I am.”

“She has heard,” said Anhyvar, looking in the direction the leaf had taken. “She will come.”

“How do you…” Julia began to ask, when she realized that Anhyvar must know what was going on inside her own memory, or the one she shared with the Ragwitch—but it was all so confusing.

“Don’t think too much on it,” said Anhyvar, obviously catching Julia’s thought from her puzzled frown. “Consider Her memory as a completely different world which we can travel in for a time. Better still, don’t think on it at all. Especially now, for I think that it is very much time…for us to have a picnic!”

“A
picnic
?” asked Mirran and Julia together, both in tones of disbelief, Mirran’s deep voice rumbling under Julia’s high one. The wind-swept top of the midden, so recently lit with crackling flames of ice, did not easily inspire thoughts of a picnic.

“Shouldn’t we be doing something?” asked Julia. “I mean the Ragwitch could be doing anything
right now…attacking somewhere, I mean…”

She paused as Anhyvar held up her hand and closed her eyes. She concentrated for a few seconds, then opened her eyes again—and stared straight past Julia, as if she were looking at something entirely different. She frowned a little then, and narrowed her eyes as if squinting through frosted glass.

“She is surveying Her latest victory…” she said, in the matter-of-fact tone of someone describing the view from a window, “a castle, recently taken. Meepers are reporting to Her…they speak of Gwarulch raids to the east…oh!”

Her eyes flashed back to Julia, and she stared at her, one hand half raised to her mouth. “Julia, did you know your brother was in this world—in the Kingdom?”

“What!” exclaimed Julia. “Paul? How could he be?”

“I don’t know,” replied Anhyvar. “But in some way he represents a threat to the Ragwitch—or She thinks he does. She has sent Gwarulch and Meepers to seek him out…and slay him.”

“No…” whispered Julia. “Not Paul…he…he wouldn’t have a chance…”

Anhyvar looked out past Julia again, and concentrated. “He has already evaded the Gwarulch twice. And it seems he is now with a strong band of the King’s soldiers in the east. The Meeper speaks of the Gwarulch being driven off. So he is safe for the time being.”

“Oh, please,” exclaimed Julia. “We have to do something soon—I can’t let Her kill Paul!”

“Don’t worry,” said Mirran, catching a look from Anhyvar. “If he is with a strong force he will be safe for quite a time, particularly if it is a long way from Her. And we shall do something…but we have to wait for the Rowan Lady—for Lyssa—and I think a picnic is a very fine way to while away the wait.”

He proffered an arm to each of them. Anhyvar looped hers through, but Julia still hesitated, till Anhyvar said, “We need Lyssa’s advice—and her power—before we can act. But for now, there is a seedcake, lemon sherbet and a summer afternoon waiting just around the corner.”

“Where?” asked Julia, looking around at the shells, the red earth, and the windswept sea. The wind was blowing so fiercely that, even with the sun shining, it didn’t feel like a summer day.

“This is my memory too,” replied Anhyvar. “Or parts of it are. And I remember a little sandy cove, the bright sun shining, and a wicker basket with a broken catch, all full of pies and cakes, and the lemon sherbet in a crystal bottle stoppered with a silver cork…”

As Anhyvar spoke, black clouds blotted out the sun. Lightning flickered, and thunder roared. Nervously, Julia took Mirran’s arm, and at Anhyvar’s word, they began to descend from the midden.

Then the lightning flashed directly overhead,
and Julia blinked. The next step she took was on soft golden sand…the sky above was the bright blue of a glorious summer day, and a positively huge wicker basket sat atop a blue blanket spread out just above the tide marks. Blinking from the lightning and the sudden sunlight, Julia still noticed that the basket only had one catch, and a silver-corked bottle stuck out of one side.

Paul shrugged his shoulders back again, trying to get used to the feel of the buff coat that had been cut down to his size—or somewhere near it, anyway. It was very bulky and awkward, and it made Paul feel like a robot from an old film, because he couldn’t bend his arms properly—though Aleyne did say that it would get better with wear.

He had a steel helmet too, with a three-barred visor that would never stay up when he wanted it to. It was a very heavy and uncomfortable helmet, but even worse was everyone’s insistence that he wear both coat and helmet all the time—because that meant he’d probably need them.

Paul shivered at the thought, and stopped to look out of the tower window, down to the preparations in the courtyard below. The whole place was full of people milling about, but there were two quite different types of bustle. Aleyne’s Borderors—regular soldiers who normally patrolled the northern frontier and kept the North-Creatures out—were very
obvious from the blue-striped sleeves of their buff coats, and the glitter of the steel shortbows they wore in special sheaths on their backs, crossed with a quiver of blue-fletched arrows. They moved purposefully, and were generally only told what to do once, and then they did it. The fisherfolk, on the other hand, seemed to be more dashing and less efficient, though Paul expected that it was mainly because they had never had to make ready for battle before. With more than six villages represented, they were a very mixed sight, sporting equipment, armor and weapons even more varied than those of the Donbreye villagers.

Through the crowd, Paul could see Aleyne talking, encouraging, and straightening out problems. He could see Deamus too, looming out of the smoke around the forge where he was beating an old steel cuirass into shape for Oel, who sat nearby with Sevaun, both of them intently cleaning a pile of rusty pike-heads.

The sight of Sevaun working made Paul remember he was supposed to be looking for Quigin, who had organized a gang of spies from rats, magpies and (for night-time) owls. One of the magpies had flown over a few minutes earlier, calling wildly, before alighting in the tower where Quigin took his reports. So Aleyne had sent Paul to find out what the bird had seen. Remembering this mission, Paul turned back from the window, and started up the stairs again, complaining to himself about the extra weight of coat and helmet.

As expected, Quigin was out on the ramparts of the tower, talking to the magpie. Paul climbed wearily up the last step, and sat in one of the embrasures till Quigin had finished talking and the bird was rewarded with a piece of the burnt bacon left over from breakfast.

“What did the magpie say?” asked Paul, as Quigin straightened up and pushed back the bandanna he’d taken to wearing in place of his hat, now lost forever at the bottom of the sea.

“Good news,” smiled Quigin, peering over the ramparts. “Which we should be able to see…over there!”

Paul followed Quigin’s pointing finger, out beyond the castle to the fields that bordered the forest which in turn bordered the sea. At first he couldn’t see anything, then he caught a glimpse of something moving out of the forest—or rather, a whole lot of somethings. They spread out into the field, and a larger shape emerged from the shadow of the trees…a much larger shape.

“Are you sure this is good news?” asked Paul doubtfully, shading his eyes to get a better look at whatever it was.

“Yes, of course,” replied Quigin. “It’s Ethric, and the dogs—and there’s Rip and Tear.”

“What!” exclaimed Paul. Quigin seemed to be feverish. He was dancing about, pointing to the sky—then Paul saw he was pointing at two cruising shapes which somehow looked rather familiar. They circled closer, and he realized they were very
large eagles, with distinctive, wedge-shaped tails.

“Why, they’re wedge-tailed eagles!” he said with delight. “Just like the ones at home…except maybe bigger…”

“Rip and Tear,” explained Quigin. “Ethric is the great brindled boar, and the dogs…I’ll introduce you when they arrive.”

“You know them all?” asked Paul. “Where are they from?”

“Didn’t I tell you?” asked Quigin. “They’re Friends of Master Cagael—my master—and there he is!”

With that, Quigin was off down the steps, almost tripping on the top one and arriving rather too fast at the bottom. Paul looked back to the forest, where a man-sized figure was emerging to walk next to the large creature—presumably Ethric the brindled boar—while the smaller shapes (obviously the dogs) quested back and forth across the fields as they progressed towards Caer Follyn.

Ten minutes later, the outer gates to the castle creaked open, and Quigin was bowled over by five rather large black and brown hounds, who seemed intent on licking him to death in welcome. Then Cagael and Ethric the boar entered more sedately, and the dogs drew back and sat in a line, panting heavily and thumping their tails on the ground in delight.

Quigin got up, and was just going forward to say hello to Cagael, when there was a harsh whistle
from overhead, and the two eagles plummeted down to alight onto a peculiar saddle astride Ethric. Even this enormous bristled pig (the size of a small pony) shuddered under their impact. They flapped and hopped till they were comfortable, glared at Quigin with their fierce eyes, and let out two surprisingly gentle cries of welcome.

All around the courtyard, everyone had stopped to watch this imposing entrance, but Aleyne shouted, “Back to work everyone! And welcome, Cagael, Friend of Beasts!”

Cagael pushed back his hat, revealing a round, tanned face under greyish and thinning hair, smiled a smile showing several missing teeth, and said, “Hello to you, Sir Aleyne—and to you, young Quigin. I hope you’ve been of service, and learnt a thing or two.”

“Oh, I have,” exclaimed Quigin. “I’ve been to the Wind Moot, and under the sea…”

Cagael smiled again, and said, “You should have learned at least a thing or four! But who’s this I see with Leasel?”

Paul, who had fetched Leasel from the kitchen gardens, was soon introduced, and his story told by a combination of Aleyne, Quigin, Paul and, he suspected, Leasel, who exchanged eye-to-eye greetings with Cagael for quite a long time.

Then Aleyne and Cagael went on to speak of the North (Cagael brought news he’d heard from the birds), and Paul was introduced to the animals,
much to the enjoyment of the dogs, who were called Ean, Tall, Yither, Wuin and Tan. Which was simply the numbers one to five in the old Chant-Magic language, explained Quigin, but it seemed to suit them. They were of the breed of marmot-hunters from the far south—great runners, hunters and diggers, and clever too. Paul thought they looked like extra-large dingoes with black backs, albeit with a total lack of dingo shyness.

Ethric the boar was another matter. Paul had never seen anything that looked so big and fierce. His tusks were the size of Paul’s forearms, and his trotters were shod with steel. Despite all that, he seemed very likeable—his eyes twinkled with a keen intelligence, and he didn’t seem dangerous to his friends.

Paul was being formally introduced to Rip and Tear when Aleyne came out onto the steps of the keep, and shouted for silence. When all the noise and bustle in the courtyard stilled, he said, “The Friend of Beasts has brought bad tidings from the north. Caer Calbore has fallen.”

A shocked silence met his words, and those who knew the great northern fortress muttered their disbelief at Aleyne’s words. But they quietened as Aleyne spoke again.

“The Ragwitch’s army is moving south—faster than anyone could have guessed. We must march by tomorrow’s dawn, or risk being cut off from the King and the rest of the army. So, my friends—to work!”

All around Paul, people redoubled their pace—fitting armor, fletching arrows, shoeing horses, packing rations and water, and generally preparing for the march. Paul felt the Breath and the Blood in his pocket, and hoped he’d find the Fire Queen or the Earth Lady soon. Aleyne had told him Caer Calbore was the strongest castle in the Kingdom after the Citadel in Yendre itself. Now it had fallen, only the King’s army stood between the Ragwitch and the unprotected heartlands of the Kingdom. And against Her Magic, even an army would probably not be enough…

Completely full of food, warm, and rather happy for the first time in ages, Julia was molding the sand under the rug to make a nice snoozing place, when she caught a glimpse of something…someone, out of the corner of one eye. Her heart thudded for a second at the thought of Gwarulch, but there was no mistaking the tall figure, with her hair so silver in the sun. As she had promised, Lyssa had answered the call of the wind-blown leaf. Julia ran to her through the wash of the waves, hugged her, and was hugged in return.

“Now, you see it wasn’t too hard for you,” said Lyssa, as Julia led her by the hand to the rug, where Mirran and Anhyvar sat quietly talking. Both rose as Lyssa approached, and once again went through the formal ceremony of kissing hands. Lyssa didn’t seem surprised to see Mirran, only saying, “I wondered what had happened to
you all those centuries ago, Sire. Your body and armor were never found, you know. I am glad to see you still sane.”