The Ragwitch (18 page)

On either side of the King’s banners, there were masses of pikemen—at this distance looking like upside down wire brushes with every piece of wire moving. They didn’t look at all ready for battle, and the Ragwitch picked up speed again, and the Angarling and the whole of Her army likewise. The sound of the rumbling stones and the thudding of Gwarulch feet grew faster, the tempo quickened, and Julia saw that the pikemen were moving too, into ranks six or eight deep, their pikes lowering towards the enemy.

In between the hedgehogs of pikemen, archers appeared and strode forward, and a rain of blue-feathered arrows began to whistle down on the closer Gwarulch, and they became like a line of stumbling drunks with many falling—but still they advanced.

Then the Ragwitch shouted, a shout that filled the whole hill with Her murderous delight, a shout that visibly rocked the human ranks in front. All down the hill, their long shadows quivered and moved, as if even the shadows were
fearful of what was to come.

And with the shout, everything suddenly happened at once.

The Gwarulch howled, the Angarling bellowed, and they all began a mad, headlong rush to the top of the hill, a furious charge without any semblance of order. Overhead, the Meepers dived against a storm of arrows, and the hillside was alive with the flash of blue whistling through the air, the thud of arrows striking home, and the screams of Gwarulch or Glazed-Folk.

Everywhere was noise and movement, the screaming and shouting rising above all—and then the great crash came as the two armies collided all along the front of the hill, Gwarulch and Angarling in among the pikes and bowmen in a furious melée.

Through the Ragwitch’s eyes, Julia saw the Angarling smash into a wall of pikes, breaking them into matchsticks and useless shards of steel. They ploughed straight on, literally crushing any opposition, and the Gwarulch poured through the gaps, with claws and teeth slicing and gnashing. For a few, fast, furious seconds, Julia saw human faces under helmets, faces shouting and screaming, all trying to hack their way back to the Ragwitch and somehow cut Her down.

But few passed the Angarling, and those who did were cut down by the huge Gwarulch guard that followed Oroch. The Ragwitch was an unstoppable
force as She strode on, straight for the center of the human army, the banners, and the King.

The noise is the worst part, thought Paul desperately. All the shouting and screams and clash of steel, and the howling of so many Gwarulch. The noise…and not knowing who was winning.

Quigin seemed to share his thoughts, and started to say, “I wonder what’s…” when the noise from the battle suddenly changed—and the enemy sounded louder, more triumphant, and much closer.

For about the tenth time, Paul wished that Aleyne had let him go right up to the battle, instead of making him stay back with the supply wagons. At least he could see what was happening in the battle…

They’d seen a little, at the beginning, climbing up the hill towards the rear of the army. But they were soon pressed into service back at the wagons, helping the healers with the constant streams of wounded coming down from the battle’s front line.

And always, there was the sound of fighting—the last second of a car crash magnified a hundred times, mixed with the roar of a football crowd and feeding time at the zoo. After a while, Paul could distinguish the sounds of both sides in the tumult, and he knew that the Ragwitch was always getting louder…and closer…as Her North-Creatures forced their way up the other side of the ridge. The
flow of wounded was increasing too—men and women staggering, barely able to walk, or being carried down by others, themselves wounded and often at the point of exhaustion.

Paul took bandages to the healer’s tents, and water to the wounded who lay nearby in ever-increasing lines. He was glad he didn’t have to go into the tents where the healers and surgeons were at their work. He’d seen enough outside them, and had been sick early on, before a sort of horrified numbness set in, helped by the constant calls for water or bandages.

He’d seen a few of the Donbreye villagers come in wounded, but no one he particularly knew, for which he was thankful. Most of the wounded could not speak coherently of the battle, though many spoke of the Ragwitch and the Angarling—their faces grey with hurt, or shining with the pallor of the very badly wounded.

Paul was refilling his water bottle at a barrel when there was a sudden lull in the battle noise. He stared up at the ridge, and even as he looked, the noise resumed, even louder than before—and he saw a great line of milling soldiers appear on his side of the ridge, and start downhill—some of them running backwards, or half-turned—a wild helter-skelter mass of scattered figures.

“The pike-wall’s broken on the left,” said a voice next to Paul, and he turned to see a soldier standing by him. It was one of the Borderors, an old sol
dier by the look of him, his grizzled hair worn down by long wearing of a helmet, and an old white scar livid across the back of his hand. Now he had a bandage across his forehead, and a great bruise down the side of his face.

“I never thought I’d see North-Creatures get the better of us,” he added. “Nothing will stop them now.”

Paul looked back up at the ridge. Even in those few short seconds, he could see that there was no hope for that part of the battle. All along the left of the ridge, the King’s army was being forced back, and already some had turned to flee.

“There must be something…someone can do…” cried Paul. “What about the King?”

“The King?” replied the soldier, staring up at the ridge. His eyes scanned the hillside for a moment, scanning the broiling mass of men, beasts and banners, then settled on a knot of fighting somewhere near the center. He pointed to it, and Paul caught a glimpse of the golden banner—the Royal Standard.

“The King’s up there,” said the soldier quietly. “There’s little chance he’ll get away. Little chance for anyone…” He gestured at the wounded lying between the wagons, and added, “Least of all for us. There won’t be time to get away…particularly with those blood-beaked things up there. Meepers they’re called…”

He pointed to the sky. Most of the Meepers who
had survived the first attack were keeping their distance, afraid of anyone who could draw a bow, even the walking wounded. The soldier looked at them for a second, spat on the ground in disgust, and then spat on his well-notched blade, preparing it for a pocket whetstone. Paul noticed his spittle was flecked with blood.

He pushed the stone along the blade a couple of times, and then said, almost to himself, “It was never a fair fight anyway, what with their Magic, and Her, and the Stone Knights. We…I…did my best…”

He frowned, and the whetstone dropped from his hand, then the sword, and he slowly crumpled onto the ground. Paul was quick to offer him a drink, but the old soldier refused.

“Must have got somewhere worse than I thought,” he said to Paul, with a slight grin. “’Course, they couldn’t have done it without Magic. Gwarulch and Meepers aren’t much normally, ’least when it comes to real fighting…it’s the Stone Knights…and Magic…”

He closed his eyes for a second, then looked back up at Paul, staring and unseeing. “And we haven’t got any Magic any more…no Magic…when I was a boy, there was a Wizard…lived in a tower…or was that a song? And Magic was…was…”

His voice trailed off and his eyes closed. Paul watched him try to grin, but his head lolled off to one side. His breath misted the steel of his cuirass
for a second, then it faded, and was not renewed.

Paul stared at him, as if he could see nothing else at all. The noise of the battle, the cries and moans of the wounded, all faded into the background, and the man’s voice played over and over in his mind, “Magic…and we haven’t got any Magic any more…no Magic…”

Then a voice penetrated his isolation, and he snapped back to find Aleyne standing in front of him—a tired and bloody Aleyne, his breastplate dented, and buff coat torn. He was bleeding from a long cut or Gwarulch scratch down his arm, the blood dripping onto the reins of his white horse, who stood nervously at his side.

“Take my horse to Quigin,” he said quickly, before Paul could speak. “I want both of you to ride him out of here. Head south—for Yendre.”

“But what about you?” cried Paul. “How are you going to get away?”

“I’m not,” said Aleyne. “Or at least not yet. The King and Lady Sasterisk still hold the center of the ridge. I’m going back to help. We have to hold for at least an hour—otherwise no one will get away.”

“An hour…can you?” asked Paul, shouting, for the noise of fighting was louder and closer. On the ridge, the human forces were constantly being driven back. Paul could make out individual soldiers now, and the Gwarulch biting and ripping among them. As Paul watched, he heard a bellow of inhuman sound, and a great stone battered its
way through the melée. The human soldiers fought wildly to get out of its way, but not all were quick enough. Once through the battle-line, the huge stone turned, and crushed back through, spreading death and disarray.

“The Stone Knights of Angarling,” said Aleyne grimly. “We cannot stop them. We need rain! Rain to blind the Meepers above, and mud to bog the Stone Knights down.”

He looked up at the sky, but it was clear and blue—the only clouds in sight were swarms of Meepers waiting for the army to flee. Paul looked up too, and thought of real clouds—and what they were made of.

“Air and water,” he said to himself, thinking back to geography lessons he’d never really listened to.
“Air and water!”
he said again, feeling for his pouch.

Aleyne stared at him, eyes dull with fatigue, suddenly brightening with a spark of comprehension as Paul pulled out the feather of the Breath and the teardrop of the Blood.

“The Breath helped me before,” said Paul. “Maybe with both, I can call rainclouds or something. Water and Air!”

“Try!” said Aleyne eagerly. “But do not wait too long. Find Quigin, and tell him to ride with you as soon as the battle-line breaks—if not before. You must not wait then! But I truly hope the Elementals will give us their aid today. And
remember—head south, and we shall meet again!”

“Good…good luck!” shouted Paul anxiously. He looked at Aleyne’s back as the knight trod steadfastly back uphill, heading for the thick of battle, then he turned his attention to the Breath and the Blood. Both seemed to stir in his hands, so he knelt by the side of the old soldier, closed his eyes, and thought as hard as he could of rain.

He remembered a terrific storm he’d been caught in, which had dumped twenty centimeters of rain inside an hour and caused many floods. That was the storm he wanted, and he tried to picture it inside his head, sweeping in to wash the Ragwitch’s army down the slope of Reddow Cairn.

Minutes passed, and the sound of fighting grew ever closer and more threatening, but Paul kept on concentrating. Deep black clouds formed inside his head, complete with the crackle of thunder and the play of lightning across the sky, and he thought the Blood and the Breath were twitching in his closed hands.

More time passed—he didn’t know how long—but still he didn’t look, seeing and hearing only the storm inside his head. Then thunder crashed all around him, and not just in his mind. Paul’s eyes flashed open, and he felt a great shadow roll across his face, and across the wagons and the ridge of Reddow Cairn. The sky was full of black, roiling clouds.

Seconds later, great drops of rain began to fall,
punctuating the cries of disbelief from the wounded at this storm which had come from nowhere. But from the top of the ridge, there came a great scream of anger. Looking up, Paul saw a huge, grotesque figure, silhouetted against the lightning-charged sky. It was the Ragwitch, and She was pointing directly at him.

I
AM SURE IT WAS
P
AUL
,” said Julia, kneeling down to feel the comforting turf. “I’d recognize him anywhere—even dressed up in a helmet and coat!”

“Whoever it was, he did a fine day’s work today!” exclaimed Mirran cheerfully. “That rain! The sight of Angarling bogging down into the mud is one I shall long remember!”

“Yes,” said Lyssa quietly. “If it were not for the rain, I fear no one would have escaped.”

“Yet that same storm, in saving the King and his army, may well have brought your brother into greater peril,” said Anhyvar, who had been staring out into the blackness through the Ragwitch’s eyes. “It was Paul, Julia, and She recognized him—and now sends Gwarulch and Meepers to bring him to Her.”

“What do you mean?” asked Julia. “He got away—on a white horse. I saw him! There was another boy on the front…”

“Yes…he has escaped the battlefield,” said Anhyvar. Her forehead wrinkled in troubled thought, and she took Julia’s hands in her own. “He has escaped,” she explained, “but in using the Wild Magic he has become a threat to Her. It was the Wild Magic that cast the North-Queen out, and forced Her to take Her current form. She is afraid of that Magic, for it is unpredictable, and strong…and so, She must see your brother captured or slain. She has sent Oroch and his guard to seek Paul out.”

“But if he’s got…Wild Magic…or whatever it is, can’t he beat them?” asked Julia. “I mean, if he can make a storm like that!”

“The Wild Magic isn’t something you can get hold of…or even control,” said Lyssa. “It may be summoned, and sometimes dismissed, but what it does in between is anybody’s guess.”

“Yet it may help Paul,” said Anhyvar quickly, seeing Julia’s distress. “He certainly summoned the storm…so he has some bond with the Wild Magic. It may serve him in his need.”

“And apart from Magic,” added Mirran, “he was riding a very swift horse. He is probably well away by now. And with this rain, the Meepers can’t fly, and the Gwarulch can’t track.”

“That is very true,” said Lyssa. “So I am sure Paul will be safe for the time being. You must be brave
for him, Julia—and for yourself. For the Ragwitch will certainly call you to Her thoughts soon.”

“Oh…” said Julia, feeling tears starting in the corners of her eyes. “I’d forgotten…for a little while anyway…the twig-maid isn’t there any more.”

“But we will be here,” said Anhyvar, giving her a hug. “And I shall watch and listen, and sometimes I may whisper to remind you that you are not alone.”

“She will probably forget to keep you bound,” said Lyssa, “so you will be able to come back here to us…if only every now and then.”

Julia nodded, and fought back the tears. Then Mirran stood before her, and said, “Her time will come—and we shall be the cause of Her fall. Remember that, and look for our opportunity. She may think She is harming you, and She may delight in doing so, but ultimately the harm will be to Her, by your hand, and ours.”

He took her hand, and raised it to his lips, bowing his head. Julia felt a touch of pride, and straightened up, brushing away the starting tears with her other hand.

“I know you will be brave,” said Mirran. “And we shall defeat Her.”

Anhyvar touched her silver star to Julia’s forehead, and it was like the brush of a delightful breeze mixed with the warmth of the summer sun.

“I shall always hear, when you need me,” she
said. “And we shall see you soon.”

Julia nodded, and tried to smile, a smile that turned into a grimace as she felt the white globe pulse, and the pain of the Ragwitch’s cold thoughts calling her with Her foul senses.

The others saw it too, and all three quickly hugged her. Lyssa kissed her on the forehead, and didn’t say anything—but Julia felt some of Lyssa’s calm settle on her, so that she was less sickened by the Ragwitch’s call.

“I’ll do my best,” she said to the three of them, and then before anyone could say anything more, she struck out into the weightless fluid, straight for the white globe—and the evil thoughts and cloying senses of the Ragwitch.

The white horse stumbled again, and Quigin bent over its neck to peer at the ground in front of them before gently elbowing Paul to wake him up.

“We’ll have to walk now,” he said, as Paul leaned back in the saddle, and blinked at the darkness about him. “I can’t see the ground properly—but I think we’re on some sort of trail, going down.”

“Uh,” said Paul wearily, sliding off the horse after Quigin. He was soaked through, and his sodden coat felt like a sack of sand. Now the excitement of the battle was over, he felt completely exhausted, especially since the fury of the storm had long since given way to the quiet darkness of a cloudy night.

Neither he nor Quigin had any idea where they were. After Paul had seen the Ragwitch point him out, fear had ruled his flight, and Quigin hadn’t been much better. But the older boy was characteristically confident of finding somewhere safe to spend the remainder of the night.

“It’s definitely a path,” he said to Paul, after discussing the matter with the horse. “Going down into a valley. Hold onto the saddle, and we’ll walk down.”

“Can’t we just rest here?” asked Paul, the tiredness heavy in his arms and legs. He was starting to get cold too, and wanted to curl up in the thick blanket that was rolled up across the back of Aleyne’s saddle.

“It’ll be safer in the valley,” replied Quigin, his face just visible in front of Paul. “There will probably even be a house, or a shepherd’s hut.”

“O.K.,” said Paul, reaching up to hang onto a saddlestrap. “Let’s go.”

They walked in silence then, with Paul counting his footsteps in an effort to keep up the pace. But that reminded him of counting sheep and sleep, so he stopped and just walked without any real thoughts at all, like a thoroughly wound-up clockwork toy.

It wasn’t until Quigin suddenly stopped and he ran into his back that Paul realized he’d fallen asleep on his feet. He’d never really believed it was possible to be that tired before. Now he looked
around with bleary eyes, and absolutely no memory of how long he’d been walking, or where he’d walked. But they were at the bottom of the hill-path, and in the valley, because the ground was flat.

It was still very dark, but Paul could feel gravel crunching under his feet, and he could see two dim lines on either side, so they were obviously on some sort of road. Quigin seemed to see it clearly, for he started walking again, with Paul stumbling along behind.

Gradually, Paul realized that there was a light ahead, and Quigin was aiming purposefully for that, rather than following the gravelled road. The outline he’d vaguely seen had disappeared, and they were walking on soft ground covered with clumps of grass, and thistles that annoyed Paul into some sort of wakefulness. And there was a small orange glow ahead, comfortable and flickering, like a campfire—very attractive to two sodden boys, who headed for it like single-minded moths, not even thinking of whose campfire it might be, or what might be waiting in the darkness outside the narrow circle of firelight.

But when they finally stood in the flickering light, there was no one anywhere near it, nor any sign of people or North-Creatures. And the fire wasn’t a campfire, but a strange mound made of blocks of peat. One of the blocks had slipped away, revealing a core of fire within, and now the whole mound was leaking and sprouting flame. In the
increasing light of the fire, Paul saw there were a number of similar mounds nearby, all gently smoking, with only faint glowing lines between the blocks to hint at the fires within.

“Charcoal mounds,” said Quigin, tilting his head to watch sparks flying upwards from the broken mound. “At least they were. They must have been left too long. They won’t make charcoal if they burn too hot, but they’ll make us dry.”

“I hope so,” said Paul, shivering, and edging closer to the fire. The heat soon made his eyes droop again, but as only the side towards the fire was drying, he had to keep turning to stay comfortable. While Paul turned and steamed, Quigin unsaddled the horse, rubbed it down, cautioned it not to stray too far, then stood next to Paul, companionably turning every few minutes.

They were well on the way to getting dry, when Paul, totally worn-out, turned around one time too many, and staggered straight towards the mound, which was now a roaring bonfire.

Quigin steadied him just in time, and helped him to sit down.

“I think I’ll just go to sleep damp,” said Paul, yawning so widely he almost swallowed a flying beetle attracted by the fire. “Can I have the blanket?”

“You can have half of it,” replied Quigin, also yawning. He looked around at the other mounds and added, “We could get a lot warmer if I open the other…”

Paul nodded sleepily, past caring what Quigin planned to do. Quigin does have some fairly silly ideas though, he thought, as he trailed off into the beginnings of sleep.

Despite his tiredness, Paul woke not long after, started out of sleep by the loud bang of something exploding in the fire. Wearily, he raised himself up on one elbow, barely noticing the blanket half under him, or the sleeping form of Quigin, with Leasel tucked in at his side. He hardly noticed because there were a lot of other things to look at—even through the white smoke that was boiling up into the sky.

At least six or seven charcoal mounds were burning fiercely, and Paul felt their heat wash across him like an over-efficient fan heater. They shed a lot of light too—and shadows, that danced and flickered in time with the leaping flames.

Paul watched the dance of the fires, and the capering shadows, and listened to the crack of exploding charcoal, the whoosh of flame, and the more homely breathing of Quigin, who sounded like he’d caught a cold. Heard together, the sounds were like some sort of primitive music, made to the beat of breathing.

Idly, Paul started to tap two twigs together to join in the rhythm of the dancing fires—a small, dishevelled figure in a blanket, tapping steadily under a great pall of smoke in the very center of a ring of seven fires.

The fires grew stronger, and the sweat began to start from Paul’s forehead. Still the flames crackled and roared, and his breath grew faster with its rhythm and the heat of the air. Paul tapped on, and when his twigs broke, he began to clap with his hands, the sound sharp and high, even among the crack and snap of the burning charcoal.

Then one fire—the first and nearest to Paul—roared up twice as high again, and split into two raging columns of fire and light. A figure appeared between the columns, arms outstretched, and stepped out of the flames with a flamboyant wave and prancing step.

It was a woman of fire. A tall, very slim woman, in a dress of greenish flames. Her skin glowed with golden heat, and the hair that blazed from her head was of the brightest red. Her eyes were deep with black heat, and when she spoke, white smoke jetted from her nose.

“I,” she said, in a voice that whooshed like leaping fire, “I am the Fire Queen!”

Paul stopped clapping, and sat in his blanket, far more wide awake than he felt he wanted to be. A twitch at his side told him that Leasel had woken too, just as Quigin’s uninterrupted breathing said the older boy was still asleep.

“Aren’t you going to say hello?” asked the Fire Queen, stepping out further from the fire, and setting the grass beneath her feet instantly ablaze.

“Hello,” said Paul, hastily extricating himself
from the blanket, and standing up. “I mean, good evening, your…Ladyship.”

“Fireship,” said the Lady, blowing on the green flames that jetted from the ends of her fingers. “The correct term of address is Your Fireship.”

“Oh,” said Paul, watching her green-flamed fingers with nervous eyes. He hadn’t forgotten the sudden rage of the Water Lord. “I’m sorry, Your Fireship.”

“Apology accepted,” replied the Lady. She turned her burning gaze upon Paul, and he stepped back, shielding his face with his arm.

“Now,” she said, “why have you summoned me? With, I might add, some very nice little fires.”

“I didn’t…” Paul started to say, before he realized that in a way, he had summoned her. Or he would have anyway, if he’d known how to. Perhaps he did know how, sort of subconsciously, after his dealings with the other two Elementals.

“I mean,” he added hastily, “I was hoping to meet you, Your Fireship. My name is Paul, and…I want to ask for some help.”

“My help?” asked the Fire Queen languidly. Paul felt the heat of her gaze shift from him, and nearby, a small bush burst into violet flame, and spat out hundreds of silver sparks. “My help? For what?”

“To fight the Ragwitch…” Paul began, when the Fire Queen interrupted him.

“Oh, you’re
that
Paul!” she said, as if she’d read about him in a newspaper. “Air told me all about
you, and your visit to him, and that beastly Water Lord.”

“He did?” asked Paul, surprised. “Does that mean you’ll help?”

“Not…necessarily,” said the Queen. Paul peeked a look over his raised arm, and saw that she was smiling. Puffs of different colored smoke came from her nostrils as she added, “What will you do for me?”

Paul opened his mouth to reply, then felt his jaw snick shut as he realized he’d almost said “anything.” After all, he couldn’t really offer to do some work in her garden, or take the garbage out, or anything like that. But to say “anything” could be really dangerous…

He thought about it for a few seconds, while the Fire Queen amused herself turning slow cartwheels through three of the mounds, scattering the coals till they made a sparkling carpet between the remaining four.

“I’ll do anything,” Paul said suddenly, when the Fire Queen stopped and stood in the middle of the coals. She cocked her head to listen to him, pirouetted with arms outstretched, and then beckoned to him.

“Good,” she said. “I want you to dance.”

“Dance?” Paul had the fleeting image of himself twirling about, shaking his arms and legs and generally being a disco star. Then, as he saw her beckoning hand, he realized the Fire Queen wanted
him to dance with her—dance out on the red-hot coals, with a being of pure fire.

She beckoned again, and Paul hesitated, already imagining the pain of being burnt. He’d dropped a cup of boiling tea on his foot once—that was enough to remember the pain of burns for a lifetime.