The Ragwitch (21 page)

“Help!” he gasped out, as he felt it pulling him towards the hole, and his feet lost their hold, and slid through the churned up dirt. Quigin started forward, but Tanboule held him back, and the Friend of Beasts didn’t even struggle. Paul strained and wept, as he realized the old man was a traitor, and had got at Quigin too.

Then the thing’s head burst through the earth, and Paul found new energy to pull away. For whatever it was had a head of stones, all jumbled together, and eyes of cold jewels that sparked in the sun, and hair that seemed to be coils of dirt stuck together. Its teeth were made of black volcanic glass, and it was grinding them noisily.

Paul, in shock, gave one last almighty heave, and the thing leapt from the hole, letting go of Paul, whose head fell back onto the dirt with a loud thud.

The creature towered over him, small clods of dirt raining down from its strange attire, a smock of woven earth in every color, from black through ochre to the white of the whitest sand.

The creature straightened this unusual garment, ran her fingers through her coils of dirt, and said,
“Mmmm…that’s better. Nice of you to give me a hand, dear.”

Paul lay silent, staring up at this apparition, that spoke in a warm, comforting voice just like the school librarian (the nice one).

“Oh…uh…no problem,” he muttered, still lying on his back. Then he remembered his manners, and his encounter with the Fire Queen, and hastily got to his feet, brushing off some of the dirt. He had no doubt as to who this was now. “I mean, it was a pleasure, Your Earthship.”

“Call me Earth, or E,” said the Earth Lady, slapping some more dirt on Paul’s head and tenderly smearing a little mud on his ears. She draped a hand across his shoulder, and turned him towards Quigin and Tanboule, who stood silently by.

“And these are your friends, Paul?”

“Yes,” said Paul, guiltily, remembering that he had thought Tanboule was a traitor only seconds before. “Tanboule and Quigin…and Leasel the hare, and Hathin the donkey and Nubbins the horse.”

“Charmed, I’m sure,” said Earth, smearing Quigin and Tanboule’s hands with mud and leaving a trail of dirt down each of the animal’s backs. “What a lovely day for digging potatoes.”

“Um, yes,” said Paul, as the Earth Lady got down on her knees and started digging potatoes out. Or rather, summoning them out. She just seemed to hold her hand against the surface and potatoes
fairly leapt into her palm.

She started to hum a little tune, and soon became totally engrossed in harvesting potatoes. The others watched her for a minute or two, fascinated by the progress of potatoes from all over the patch, just to get in her hand. Then Tanboule looked at Paul, and said (with a significant nod of his head towards the peak), “The sooner they’re in, the sooner we go.”

“Yes…I mean,
yes!”
said Paul, tearing his eyes away from the Earth Lady—the last of the four Elementals—with some difficulty. He wanted to talk to her that second, to ask for her help, before the Gwarulch descended and made it impossible. But she seemed totally intent on the potatoes, and didn’t look up at all to give him even the chance of starting a conversation.

So Paul took a deep breath to ease the tension that was building up inside him, and started digging the potatoes again. But even single-mindedly staring at the ground in front of him, and working as fast as he could couldn’t distract him or calm him down. He knew that the Gwarulch were there, waiting to attack. And the Earth Lady—possibly the end of his quest—was only two meters away. But maybe he should be patient—the Elementals he’d met were all strange, powerful and unpredictable. Perhaps harvesting potatoes was something the Earth Lady really liked doing, and if he interrupted, she’d never help him.

Paul let out a little gasp of indecision, fear and apprehension, and looked at Tanboule, hoping that he would tell him what to do. But the wise man wasn’t looking, and something told Paul he wouldn’t look, that any decisions were up to him.

Then, the multitude of Gwarulch howled in unison, their harsh, drawn-out cries echoing down the mountain, cruel and chilling under the beautiful sky.

Paul’s head snapped up, and he dropped his trowel, the howls filling him with fear. There, on the ridge, a line of Gwarulch was spread out, tall shapes silhouetted against the sun. In the middle, a spindly, black-wrapped figure raised its arm—and pointed straight at Paul.

The howls came again, merging into one awful, terrifying shriek of triumph and bloodlust. Then the Gwarulch leapt down the mountainside, eyes and talons glittering in the sun.

And in that same instant, the Earth Lady stood up and threw a clutch of potatoes into a sack, saying, “That’s the last of them. Except for one. Come here, Paul.”

Paul stood staring at the Gwarulch screaming down towards him, and felt himself move towards the Earth Lady as though he were a puppet. Everything seemed to stretch, and he felt the seconds go by very slowly, marked by the knelling of his heart. His eyes slid over to Quigin and Tanboule, who seemed as still as statues, and then
he looked at the Earth Lady.

He thought she was holding a potato out to him, and then he realized it wasn’t really a potato, but some sort of strange, yellowish vegetable. It had bulbous extrusions like arms and legs and a head, and two whorls of discolored skin that might be eyes.

“The Body,” said the Earth Lady. “A free gift, Paul. You’ve got them all now—Air, Water, Fire and Earth.”

Paul held out his hand, and slowly took the Body from the Earth Lady, almost as if he couldn’t believe it was there. He looked at the strange, turnipy sort of figure, and then up at the Gwarulch racing towards him, howling and moving with ferocious speed. They were less than eight hundred meters away now—or about a minute and a half, Paul guessed.

“What do I do?” he blurted, his hands shaking as he tried to put the Body in the pouch. It stuck, and he quickly looked down to open it. When he looked back up, the Earth Lady was gone.

“Ride!” shouted Tanboule, seeing Paul’s mouth gape in horror. Throwing his telescope away, he picked Paul up and threw him too—onto the back of Nubbins. Quigin jumped up in front, and Nubbins leapt away towards the downward slope. Hathin streaked at his heels, braying in fear at the stench of hunting Gwarulch.

And in the potato field, an old man suddenly
disappeared, even as the lead Gwarulch leapt over the piled sacks, eager to kill. They checked their stride, and their piggy eyes slid over the field before they took off again, redoubling their pace in an effort to catch the mounted boys.

Only the black-bandaged figure halted, and then only for a moment. Oroch could smell Sorcery of some unfamiliar kind, and he thought he’d heard the whisper of a human voice…a whisper that said something like, “Come to help with the broad beans? Third trellis on the left…”

J
ULIA,” SAID THE
voices, and then, more urgently, “Julia!”

The girl listened to them dreamily, as she sank farther into blackness. The sounds meant something, she thought—but then once again she lost the capacity for thought, and the sounds came again.

“Julia! Julia! Julia!”

She paid more attention this time—became aware that she
could
pay attention—and gained something of the ability to concentrate her sparse thoughts.

Then the singing began. She didn’t know what singing was, but something in her responded to it. It was pleasing…it drew her up from the total absence of thought. She wanted to understand what it was, why it pleased her…Once again she
concentrated her thoughts, grasping onto the song that twined around her like a vine. Now she knew it was three people singing, and they were two women and a man.

And she became aware of herself. She was a girl, like the singing women, but younger. And with that awareness, the song strengthened, became louder, more familiar. And in the middle of it was her name.

“Oh! Oh!” cried Julia, as she felt the tears coursing down her own soft cheeks, and her own arms and legs quivering with life, and all her memories rushing back…all the things that made her Julia…all the habits, likes, dislikes, tastes, talents, voice and movement…

Hands reached down and lifted her from darkness into light, and Julia fell sobbing into Lyssa’s open arms as Mirran and Anhyvar stroked her hair, still singing her name.

Through a veil of Lyssa’s hair, Julia saw that she was back at the ring of braided holly and turf, and the cheerful yellow flame was burning briskly at her side. She took a deep breath, and stopped crying. As she slowly quietened and relaxed within Lyssa’s embrace, the others stopped singing.

“What happened?” whispered Julia, her mouth so tangled in Lyssa’s silver hair that the words were barely audible. “I couldn’t resist…”

“We didn’t expect you to,” said Lyssa. “We meant to bring you back before…”

“But…” whispered Julia, “I was…She took me a…apart.”

“Yes,” said Lyssa. “But Anhyvar was watching—together we made sure we got you instead of Her.”

“How?” asked Julia, leaning back a little to spit out the hair. Then, in sudden fear, “Can She take me back?”

“No, child!” exclaimed Lyssa, hugging her again. “Not now—not after we’ve sung you back together.”

“You have been claimed by me,” said Anhyvar, smiling. “I hope you prefer that.”

“Oh, yes!” said Julia, turning back to smile at Anhyvar. “And I’m really to stay here with you, and Lyssa, and Mirran?”

“Yes,” said Anhyvar, firmly. “But She will try and destroy us all.”

“I don’t care!” said Julia. “As long as I’m not alone.”

“We fight together,” said Mirran. “And never have I seen such a formidable gathering of Heroes, Kings and Sorceresses.”

Julia looked up at him smiling above her, then looked down, and wriggled her toes in the turf. “Do you mean I’m a hero?”

“Of course,” said Mirran, gravely. “You have fought Her many times, and not been defeated. I doubt if anyone else could say that.”

“I always wanted to be a hero,” said Julia, remembering cosy reading by the fire, or farther
back, her mother reading to her and Paul, of kings and wizards, dragons and heroes.

“I don’t think I want to be one now,” she added, thinking of fighting the Ragwitch. “I just want to finish Her off…get Paul, and go home.”

No one spoke for a second, and Julia felt an unnatural quietness from the others. She looked up from the turf, close into Lyssa’s face. Anhyvar and Mirran were standing behind her, their hands loosely entwined, and they both looked very sad.

“Oh, Julia,” said Anhyvar softly. “I fear none of us will go home from here. Given great fortune, we may destroy Her. But there is little hope for anything else.”

Julia stared at her, and felt Anhyvar’s words echo through her. Little hope…

“I guess,” she said, “I guess…I knew all along. But I’m only…”

“I know,” said Lyssa, gently. “If we could spare you, I would send you ahead of us, to make the great discovery…but we need your strength—and there is always the slightest chance you may be able to escape…given some great Magic. And in the end, if we find no other way, we will all go together. Even if She prevails, I can make sure She has none of us.”

“What do you mean?” asked Julia.

“I cannot promise life,” said Lyssa. “But we shall have a true death—not a lingering existence as small splinters of Her mind. And if there is a road
to travel after life, we shall go together.”

“You mean you don’t know?” asked Julia. “I mean, if we’re going to…to die…won’t we go to…heaven or somewhere?”

“Heaven?” asked Lyssa, looking searchingly into Julia’s tear-stained face. “Oh—perhaps. No one knows, my dear.”

“Except perhaps the Knights of Drowned Angarling,” added Anhyvar thoughtfully. “If they ever really died, before they were brought back to be encased in stone.”

“But enough of this talk,” cried Lyssa, standing up and pulling Julia up with her. “I am sure that She will soon try to winkle us out of our hidey-hole. Anhyvar?”

The red-haired Witch nodded, and stared out into the blackness, her forehead wrinkling in concentration.

“She…” Anhyvar began, then she cried out, and held a hand to her mouth, eyes blinking, as the white globe suddenly pulsed with a savage burst of light, washing out the yellow glow of the fire. A second later, a clap of thunder sounded, and the fluid roiled and eddied around the globe.

Then the Ragwitch’s voice came booming—but it was a voice somehow made up of many Ragwitch voices, all speaking in unison, and echoing everywhere.

“So! You still defy Us, Anhyvar. Have you forgotten that once before you were brought beyond the
Door—and can be again! And you, Rowan Lady: we know your tree at Alnwere, and it shall be uprooted and destroyed! And Mirran—once mewing beast—you shall return to your eternal torment!” The voice faded for a moment, and then returned, diminished to just the hissing, familiar voice of the Ragwitch. “And my little Julia. What strange company you keep. They cannot protect you, Julia. Not from Me…not here. You’ve been a part of Me too long, Julia. You must want to come back to Me…to rejoin Me…Come back, Julia…come…”

Julia grimaced, and tried not to listen. But the words were strangely alluring, and their power coursed through her. She found herself pushing at Lyssa, trying to get free, until Anhyvar held up her star, and it flashed blue as the sky.

“Silence!” cried Anhyvar…and She fell silent, but only for a moment. Then a hideous cackling, wheezing sort of laugh began to echo all around them. In control of herself once again, Julia crept back into Lyssa’s embrace.

“You…” cackled the Ragwitch, “challenge Me?
Here
, within My Mind?”

“Yes!” shouted Anhyvar, and her star flashed blue again, with the sound of birds crying to the dawn.

“Yes!” shouted Mirran, drawing a sword of golden flame from the fire, and brandishing it aloft, spitting and crackling, the smell of burning
pine cones filling the air.

“Yes!” shouted Lyssa and Julia together, and the golden flame erupted upwards, showering them with sparks like confetti.

There was no answer—save the faint echo of a hissing laugh. But the globe pulsed bright again, and a dark shape began to form inside.

“Are they still coming?” shrieked Paul into Quigin’s ear, as the other boy looked back over both their shoulders, his hands entwined in Nubbins’ mane as the horse raced pell-mell down the mountainside, nimbly avoiding rocks and treacherous ground.

“Yes!” shouted Quigin, turning back to get an even firmer grip on Nubbins’ mane. In that brief backwards glance, he’d seen the Gwarulch close behind, springing down the mountainside with ferocious speed. They’d stopped howling though, and Quigin hoped their panting, white-frothed tongues meant they were coming to the end of their endurance.

Then Nubbins suddenly faltered, and came to a sliding halt, both Quigin and Paul nearly tumbling over his neck, while Hathin streaked past, still braying in total fear.

Paul was the first to right himself, and he saw why Nubbins had stopped. A man had risen out of the heather in front of them, a tall, strongly built man with long reddish locks that tumbled out
from under his broad-brimmed hat.

Then Quigin managed to sit upright and quieten the nervously pawing horse. He took one look at the man, and slid off, shouting, “Master Thruan! I thought you were dead! Can you cast a Magic spell to hold the Gwarulch off?”

Relief flooded through Paul as he realized this was the Wizard and balloon-maker Quigin had often talked about. He sighed with even more relief when he looked back up, and saw the Gwarulch halted in a long line across the mountain. Obviously Thruan had already stopped them with some sort of spell. Thankfully, Paul slid to the ground, and turned to Thruan and Quigin.

And stopped dead in fright. For Thruan had thrown his head back, and under his hat, his eyes bore the tell-tale red wash of the Glazed. There was nothing human in his face at all, and he looked at Quigin as if the boy was merely a stone in his path to be removed.

His fist lashed out across Quigin’s face, and the Friend of Beasts fell to the heather with only a surprised sort of yelp. Paul saw his friend fall in slow, slow motion, and felt rather than saw, the sudden focus of Thruan back on him. Without any sort of conscious thought, Paul’s hand drew the poniard from the scabbard across his back, even as Nubbins leapt forward, steel-clad hooves seeking to crush, and Leasel dashed through the heather to sink her long teeth in the enemy’s ankle.

But Glazed as he was, Thruan still had his Magic. With a gesture of thumb and two fingers, he sent the animals reeling to either side of him, to circle dazedly farther down the slope.

Paul tried to rush at him then, but the Glazed-Man clenched his fist, and grunted “Berach!,” and Paul felt his arm go numb. The poniard fell from his cramped fingers, clattering onto shale. He tried to move his feet, but they were also frozen.

High above, the Gwarulch howled again, and Paul heard the note of victory in their calls, as the red-eyed Thruan advanced upon him, moving with the awful stilted action of the Glazed.

He was muttering as he came, and Paul redoubled his efforts as he caught the words…“Bring him to Her…the boy…bring him…send with Meeper…She wants him…alive…or…”

He was still muttering when the blue-fletched arrow came whistling up the hill, its steel point like a spark hurtling under the sun. Paul only saw it for an instant in flight, then it transfixed Thruan, and the point was no longer shining.

The Glazed-Man looked at it in surprise, then let out a snarl of animal rage, his lips peeling back to bare his gums. He staggered a little, then his head snapped back to Paul, red eyes open, staring fixedly at his prey. Once again, he started his stop-start, disjointed steps—straight at the boy.

Another arrow whistled towards them, and struck Thruan in one outstretched, grasping arm,
slowing him not at all. But with that arrow, the paralysis left Paul, and he dodged away from the Glazed-Man’s grasp.

Upslope, the Gwarulch howled and poured down the hill again, to try to gain the boy where Thruan had failed. But a great bristled boar charged uphill ahead of a phalanx of barking hounds, while blue-sleeved archers poured a rain of arrows in an arch over Paul, up into the Gwarulch.

Paul ran, faster than he had ever run before—faster than in Ornware’s Wood, so fast his feet seemed to stretch out meters in front of him. Anything, anything to get away from the mumbling, beast-eyed thing that had once been a man.

He could see Quigin’s Master Cagael, waving to him now, even as the Borderors ran forward, stopped, fired arrows, and ran forward again. A Borderor was running towards him, waving her sword and shouting something he couldn’t hear. Then he did hear it, just as the Glazed-Man above, riddled with arrows, but still burning with obedience to Her, picked up a piece of shale and threw it without even the slightest spell to guide it true.

The Borderor was still shouting “Duck!” when the piece of shale struck Paul in the back of his helmetless head, and he went cartwheeling into the ground. For a second, the mountain whirled around him in a confusion of sky, buff coats, shouting and howls—then everything went totally and utterly black and silent.

Half an hour later, Cagael watched carefully as the soldiers finished rigging a stretcher between the unequally sized Hathin and Nubbins. Quigin stood at his side, rubbing his jaw with a herb recommended by Cagael to reduce the swelling.

“At least, it works on the dogs,” he said to his apprentice with a grin. The grin faded as two of the Borderors carefully put Paul on the stretcher and tied him in. Nubbins bent his head down and tried to look back, but couldn’t. Paul’s helmet, still tied to the saddle, clanked slightly as the horse straightened up.

“I hope…” Quigin began, with his troubled eyes resting on Paul, when a shriek above interrupted him, and Tear descended with a great flapping of wings. She hopped a little on the ground, and both Friends of Beasts dropped down on their haunches to gaze into her eyes. They were silent for a moment, then Cagael stood up and went over to the Borderor Lieutenant, who was watching her sentries farther up the mountain. She looked up as Cagael approached, and rubbed the callous under her chin, where her helmet-strap had chafed for many years.

“Bad news, Master Cagael?” she asked. “I can imagine no other kind this morning.”

Cagael shrugged, and said, “Meepers fly towards us. A band of Gwarulch approaches from the northeast, and another from the east. At least six hundred, all told.”

The lieutenant nodded, and said, “We’ll move immediately. South. The rest of the army is gathering at Alnwere.”

“Mmm…” murmured Cagael. “There will be healers there, for the boy. He has Magic, Quigin says. Elemental Magic…perhaps…”

He looked up at the arrow-pierced body of Thruan, and added, “…and perhaps not. Thruan had Magic too…even when we were boys…”

“You knew him?” asked the Borderor Lieutenant softly. “I did too, you know—though briefly. He tried to save us at the Namyr Gorge.”