Anya stared. The former frogs were no longer clad in rust and rags, but in shining new mail like her own, of fine dwarf-make. Some still carried quarterstaves, but most had spears or swords. They stood proudly in ranks, a regiment waiting its chance to take revenge for lives and time lost to evil sorcery.
Bert lounged against a tree, accompanied by dozens and dozens of Responsible Robbers, clad in their various shades of green and russet. All of them were armed to the teeth, their longbows most prominent. They carried extra sheaves of arrows on their backs, in addition to full quivers.
There was a cart and donkey, laden with bags, bottles, and a huge surgical chest, with Princess Saramin in the driver’s seat, and the three merchants and Martha sitting behind her. Hedric and five druids sat cross-legged behind the cart, long-handled scythes laid on the ground before them. The young Gerald the Herald stood nearby, writing feverishly in his notebook.
The Seven Dwarves, clad from head to foot in articulated plate armor of their own design, were gathered close by, their huge axes at rest and their visors open. Erzefezonim caught Anya’s eye, tapped her own armored chest, pointed at Anya, and smiled. The princess nodded in thanks, recognizing that it was the youngest dwarf who had cleaned and dressed her.
Behind the dwarves, Parengoethes, the oldest warden of the High Kingdom, stood with a standard, the slight breeze ruffling it open enough for Anya to see the device, a simple square of gold on a white field.
“The flag of the High Kingdom, representing the Only Stone and the All-Encompassing Bill of Rights and Wrongs,” said Dehlia, landing near Anya with a flurry of her old wings.
Ardent came from behind to stand on Anya’s right, putting his head under her hand. Smoothie reared up on the princess’s left and made an encouraging chirruping noise. And rather surprisingly, Shrub crept out from under the hawthorn and hesitantly took up a place nearby.
Sir Malorak marched over. She had new mail and a sword, which she used to salute Anya.
“Your army awaits the order to march on Trallonia Castle, Frogkisser.”
“Our army,” said Anya. The words came out as a squeak. She took a very deep breath and spoke again, much more loudly.
“Our army! Marching under the standard of the Bill of Rights and Wrongs. Tonight we retake Trallonia and defeat the evil sorcerer Rikard!”
“Very good,” said Ardent as everyone cheered. It was an amazing sound, a full-blooded cheer from hundreds of throats, which made all the birds fly out of the trees and small animals even half a league away take to their burrows.
“I hope we do defeat Rikard,” said Anya very quietly. This army was impressive, but Rikard’s probably was too. And he had his sorcery, which had continued to grow and grow in strength, as seen by the creation of the bone ship.
Who knew what other horrors he might have in store?
Anya was brought up to date with the latest news as the army marched out of the forest and across the fields towards the castle. The sun had set as they emerged from the tree line, but it was a clear night with many stars and the promise of the silver moon.
“The Duke has withdrawn his troops into the castle,” said Sir Malorak. “The count is at least fifteen score weaselfolk, four large beasts that may be trolls or lesser stonefolk of some kind, a baker’s dozen of assassins, a bandit troop of seventeen or eighteen—one may have been counted twice when she changed her hat—and the Duke himself.”
“That’s a lot,” Anya observed.
“Twice our numbers,” said Sir Malorak. “But any one of ours is worth three or four of the Duke’s, save perhaps the trolls.”
“Is this where I say ‘seize the castle’?” asked Anya.
“You may, if you wish,” said Sir Malorak. “The plan remains the same. We will draw up on the water meadow—it is dry enough—and stand ready to charge in when your party opens the gate.”
“I suppose we’d better get on with it, then,” said Anya. She cast an anxious look at the sky. “Particularly if those other sorcerers might arrive before the dawn.”
“Eat what’s in front of you first,” said Ardent. He spoke gravely, and for once wasn’t leaping about or talking too quickly. “Don’t worry about them till we have to, Princess.”
“Lead us to the tunnel, Ardent,” said Anya. She turned to the small group with her. “Is everyone ready?”
There was a chorus of ayes and yeses and of courses! Only Shrub didn’t speak. Anya looked at the huge orange newt curiously. What was he up to? His large bulbous eyes met her gaze briefly; then he looked away. Anya frowned, but she didn’t have time to find out what was going on with him.
It was strange walking in the starlit night among an army getting itself ready for an attack. The dark silhouette of the castle could be seen a few hundred yards away, against the lighter sky, but there was no activity on its crumbling walls. Anya’s troops went quietly to their positions, rough shapes moving with only the occasional whisper, but there was still the occasional jangle of armor or weapons as the soldiers collided by accident, stepped in a rabbit hole, or slipped in the damp mud of the water meadow.
The Duke had to know there was an enemy force getting ready out in the darkness, Anya thought. But perhaps Rikard presumed his sorcery was so powerful it didn’t matter who was moving against him, and he was watching from the battlements, smiling his secret smile, a cackle about to rise in his throat …
Anya banished that thought, and concentrated on following Ardent. His golden coat was bright under the stars, and she let her hand fall on his back and gave him a little scratch of encouragement. His tail wagged twice, but he was concentrating too, leading them to the tunnel entrance.
“I always wondered why there was a raised mound here,” whispered Anya as they reached the corner of the meadow.
Ardent didn’t answer. He climbed to the top of the low mound, grasped a hidden ring in his powerful jaws, and lifted a cunningly disguised trapdoor that looked just like a square of turf. Beyond it, Anya could see the beginnings of a ramp, leading down into complete darkness.
“Best let us go first,” whispered Sygror gruffly. “Dark underground is dwarf business, to be sure. We’ll light a lamp for you once we’re well under and the hatch closed behind.”
“I’ll close it,” said Sir Malorak. “Good luck. Keep the Frogkisser safe!”
Sygror spoke a few quiet words in a sharp-edged tongue Anya didn’t know but presumed to be Dwarvish, before he descended into the darkness. One by one the other dwarves followed him down the ramp.
Ardent went next, Anya holding his collar, then Smoothie, and finally Shrub, who scuttled in just before the trapdoor was closed by Sir Malorak, as if the newt couldn’t decide where he wanted to go.
It was too dark for even Ardent to see anything, but they edged along for a few steps, the dog sniffing loudly as he went. Anya could hear the dwarves moving, and soon there was the whir and click of a clockwork firestarter, and then the bloom of light from a candle, shortly magnified by a lantern glass.
In its light, Anya saw that the tunnel they were in was lined with many small yellow bricks, quite unlike anything else in Trallonia Castle. They were mortared very tightly together, and as a consequence the tunnel was dry and well kept. It was wide enough so two dwarves, who were not narrow-shouldered, could stand abreast, and it slanted downwards quite steeply, presumably so as to pass safely under the moat.
“Onwards!” said Sygror, hefting his axe. He smiled, and the other dwarves smiled back. They seemed pleased at the prospect of battle, but Anya could only feel a twisted knot in her stomach and a kind of unpleasant fluttery feeling in her heart. She supposed this was fear, and tried to ignore it, which was a lot easier to think about than actually to do in practice.
They tramped down the tunnel, the dwarves constantly looking up, down, and to each side, as if the bricks might hide secret doors or murder holes.
Possibly they do, thought Anya, who started looking herself, nervously twitching her head from side to side and
up and down.
Ardent stayed near Anya, sniffing the air constantly, but not saying anything. Smoothie came up close behind, the narrow, dry tunnel not to her liking. Shrub brought up the rear, waddling along ten paces back.
A hundred paces on or thereabouts, there was some water dripping from the ceiling. Sygror paused there, and reached up to tap the bricks. He whispered something to Gramel, who turned to whisper to Danash behind. Then Danash passed this on to Erzef, who repeated it to Anya.
“It is nothing to worry about. We go under the moat, and the tunnel is very old. But strongly built.”
“I could have told you that,” said Ardent indignantly.
Erzef smiled, turned to face the front, and continued.
“We’ll be at the lower kennels soon,” said Ardent a little later. He sniffed the air again. “I think … I think—”
There was a sudden bark up ahead, echoing through the tunnel. The dwarves stopped, axes raised.
“Who goes there?” growled a dog.
Anya recognized the growl. It was Gripper. All of a sudden she knew where the royal dogs had gone. Or rather where they hadn’t gone. They’d never left the castle, not really. They’d simply retreated to their deep, secret kennels, to wait.
To wait for her to return.
“Gripper!” she called out, tears forming in the corners of her eyes. “It’s me! Anya, with Ardent, and friends!”
“Pause, friend, be smelled and enter!” barked Gripper, in the traditional greeting of the royal dogs.
* * *
Ten minutes later Ardent was momentarily submerged by a roiling mass of his siblings and cousins, and Anya was hugging Tanitha in the center of a huge cave that was absolutely full of dogs. Magic lanterns like the ones in the Wizard’s house hung from the ceiling, burning with their cool, long-lived flames, casting their light across the natural spaces and the rough-hewn edges where long ago the cave had been expanded and made more suitable for the dogs.
“We don’t have much time,” explained Anya to Tanitha. “These are the Seven Dwarves, the famous ones—”
“I know,” said Tanitha, licking Anya’s face. “We’ve met before.”
“Indeed,” said Sygror. All the dwarves bowed, the ingenuity of their armor displayed by the fact that they could easily bend in the middle and rise again, all with only the slightest clank of metal. “It is good to see you again, matriarch.”
“Oh,” said Anya. “Well, that’s Smoothie, of the Yarrow River otters, and Shrub, who’s being strange but is a transformed good thief. We’re on our way to seize the gatehouse and let the army of the All-Encompassing Bill of Rights and Wrongs in—”
She paused, noting the reaction of the dogs as she mentioned the Bill. The mound centered on Ardent collapsed, and they were all drawing themselves up as if a rabbit had suddenly appeared before them, and there was that long second before a pursuit would either begin or not.
“Yes,” said Tanitha. She licked Anya again. “I know. We have had reports. The cats and some of the ravens, you know. Everything is in readiness.”
“In readiness?”
“Yes,” confirmed Tanitha. “Frosty will lead the troop to help seize the gates. Kneegnawer will take a troop to protect Morven. Jackanapes will take another to destroy the Duke’s study and any potions or suchlike there. The rest of us will wait to attack the weaselfolk in the rear when your army enters the castle.”
“It seems you dogs could do it all on your own,” said Sygror, his mouth quirking into a smile.
“Oh no,” said Tanitha. She heaved herself up, her tail wagging slowly. “We royal dogs, we only advise and assist. We could do nothing until Anya came home.”
“Thank you, Tanitha,” said Anya, hugging the dog again. She felt suddenly buoyed up, the jangling of her heart steadied, the knot in her stomach lessened. It was still there, but nowhere near as bad. Her fear ebbed, to be replaced by determination.
“Let’s go!”
Anya had only taken a step when she felt herself dragged back by the baldric. Twisting around, she saw Tanitha had fastened her teeth there and was holding her in place, while all around dogs were rushing towards a ramp that led upwards.
“Let me go!” protested Anya. She wriggled hard, but couldn’t dislodge Tanitha’s grip. The dwarves saluted her, and went to join the dogs.
“We wait,” growled Tanitha, words muffled by the baldric in her mouth.
Anya gave up struggling and crossed her arms in fury.
“I’ve done everything so far!” she exclaimed. “And I got back here safe and sound. Stop treating me like a little girl!”
Tanitha let go.
“I’m treating you as a very important and irreplaceable person,” said Tanitha. “Which you are. A castle storming is no place for a young person, or an old dog. It’s too easy to be killed by accident in the first few minutes, when the fighting is fiercest. We wait.”
“Shensible,” said Smoothie approvingly. Even Ardent only looked after the departing dogs once, though he drew closer to Anya as if he needed to be reminded he was supposed to stay with her. Shrub crawled closer too, but as was now usual, said nothing.
They waited in silence, Anya still fuming, though she had to recognize that Tanitha was right. At first, there was no noise from up above, but very soon there came shouts and squeals and barking. Shortly after that, the first messenger dog came racing down the ramp and skidded to a halt in front of Tanitha.
“Duke’s study taken,” panted Shortlegs. “He wasn’t there.”
“Where is he, then?” retorted Tanitha. “Tell Jackanapes to destroy as much as possible but also to find the Duke. He mustn’t escape.”
Shortlegs nodded, twisted around on the spot, and was off again, giving the lie to his name.
“I should go up,” said Anya fretfully.
“Wait,” said Tanitha as another dog messenger came sprinting in. “Ah, here’s Somersault. What news?”
“Kneegnawer’s dead, and half the troop’s out of action!” gasped Somersault. “The Duke was outside Morven’s chamber. He’s taken her up to the top of the south tower!”
“The best plans must change,” said Tanitha. She gave out a huge sigh and then barked strongly, “To the southern stair!”
A tide of dogs surged towards the southernmost of the four arched exits to the cave, taking Anya and everyone else with it.
“Steady! Steady!” barked Tanitha, but even she could not stop the mad dash and the elder dog was soon left behind, even by the puppies who joined the rush, their minders temporarily forgetting their duties.
Anya pushed her way towards the front, sliding between dogs, Ardent nipping those who didn’t move out of the way. Smoothie undulated over the top of them and Shrub slipped between their legs, keeping low to the ground.
It was slightly less crowded on the stair. As they raced up, Anya heard the crash and din of battle, the squeals of weaselfolk, and many different shouts and screams.
A minute later, they burst out onto the battlements of the south wall, beneath the tower. Below them, in the bailey, a great battle was raging, evidence that the gatehouse had already been seized, the drawbridge lowered, and the gate opened. More and more of Anya’s troops were pouring in, but they were fighting a tightly massed array of weasels, assassins, bandits, and trolls.
An assassin below saw Anya and raised his crossbow, but before he could fire, an arrow sprouted in his neck. Across the courtyard, Anya heard Bert cry “He! He!” the traditional shout of an archer who has found their mark, and she saw the robber atop the gatehouse already nocking another arrow.
The dwarves were shoulder to shoulder in a wedge, driving forward towards the trolls, axes flashing. The trolls also surged to meet their ancestral foes, crushing many of their own soldiers in the process.
Finally, Anya looked up to the tower.
Duke Rikard stood in an embrasure there, with Morven balanced precariously atop one of the merlons. The only thing stopping the princess from falling to
her death was Rikard’s grip on the braid of her long black hair. Prince Maggers was there too, flapping his arms and circling about the Duke, but not daring to come closer than two or three paces in case the sorcerer let Morven go.
Or pushed her off.
“Surrender!” screamed Rikard, his thin, creepy voice audible even over the tumult of battle. “Surrender or Princess Morven will die!”
Adding dire punctuation to his call, Morven screamed. The loudest, most terrible scream Anya had ever heard, even from her sister.
Anya stared up at her sister and the sorcerer. It was as if everything else had disappeared from her vision; she could only see them, and all the sound and fury of the battle had faded back. All she could hear was Rikard’s voice, echoing again and again through her mind.
“Surrender or Princess Morven will die!”
But she couldn’t surrender, Anya knew. If she did, Rikard would kill or transform everyone. All the friends who had done so much for her. All the former frogs, who had already suffered for so many years. The royal dogs, some of whom were already slain and would be sorely missed in the kennels.
But if she didn’t surrender, Morven would die …
“Surrender or else!” yowled Rikard again, followed by a maniacal cackle at the sky. To do this he had to put his head back, and in that moment Morven tried to escape. She leaped sideways, but the Duke didn’t let go. He pulled savagely on her hair. Morven lost her footing, teetered backwards, and then with a despairing cry went over the edge.
Only Rikard’s grip on her long braid kept her from falling. He held her there with unnatural strength, his skeletal white face stretched into a horrible grin as the princess swung like a pendulum against the tower wall.
“Surren … Oh, forget it!” screeched Rikard. He slowly opened his hand, Morven’s braid slipping through his fingers like a lifeline come unstuck.
“No!” screamed Anya. She lunged forward as if she might somehow catch her sister, but she was too far away, the tower too high. There was nothing she could do.