The Ragwitch

  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.”

  “Us?” asked Cagael, surprised. “I thought no one escaped…”

  “Only me. I was sent with a message to Caer Calbore…I escaped from there too. Through a sally port with a falconer, when all was lost…we fought Glazed-Folk there for the first time. Some of them were my companions from early days…”

  “Thruan died at the Gorge,” said Cagael firmly. He pointed at the body on the ground, and added, “That was a creation of Her.”

  Aenle didn’t answer, but waved the sentries back in, and made a signal for everyone to get ready to move. Cagael had half-turned away when she spoke again.

  “I won the prize at Yendre Fair three years running, Master Cageal. Split the wand, even split another arrow once. But that first arrow, uphill in the breeze…that was a difficult shot…a very difficult shot…”

  She was silent again for a moment, then shouted at some of the outlying archers to keep their eyes sharp, and for everyone to march hard.

  “Alnwere by tomorrow night!” she ordered, and the Borderors nodded tiredly or spat and grimaced, or grinned, each according to their nature.

  22

  The Worm/Dreams and Shadows

  THERE,” SAID LYSSA, as she braided the last of the holly leaves into another circle within the first. “That’s the best I can do for the moment.”

  Anhyvar nodded, but didn’t look down. Her eyes were fixed somewhere out beyond the darkness, where the white globe pulsed, and the dark shapes within it took on visible form.

  Julia watched the shapes with both fear and fascination. She couldn’t see exactly what was forming there. Sometimes she thought it was a Gwarulch or Meeper…but it had grown larger…and more menacing…

  Mirran watched the globe with calculating eyes, and practiced swinging his golden sword, silently cutting the air, with an economy of movement Julia hadn’t expected—Mirran didn’t do any of the grandiose gestures she’d seen in films.

  “What do we do when they come out?” Julia asked Lyssa, when she stood up from her holly leaves.

  “Whatever we must!” exclaimed the Rowan Lady. “But to be specific, if we are faced with foes of flesh and blood, we shall fight with Mirran to the fore; if we are attacked with Magic, Anhyvar and I will resist; if the Ragwitch seeks to move us within Her mind, we shall all fight back with the combined strength of our will.”

  “But what shall I do?” asked Julia. “I mean, besides the last bit, with will.”

  “You can sing,” replied Anhyvar, wiggling her toes into the turf. “That will keep the ring of holly strong—and keep Her power out.”

  “What shall I sing?” asked Julia. Asking questions and getting things absolutely clear seemed to make the waiting easier. At least it took her mind off the shadowy thing in the globe.

  Lyssa seemed to understand, because she took Julia by the hand and sat her down facing their own yellow-gold flame, and sat down beside her.

  “It doesn’t really matter what you sing. But I’ll teach you the proper warding song if you like. It is very old, and very powerful—a good song.”

  “I’d like to learn it,” said Julia. She tried to smile at Lyssa, but it faltered into a sort of gasp, as a horrible cracking noise suddenly came from the direction of the globe.

  “Don’t look,” said Lyssa quickly. “It’s only just beginning. There is still time to learn the song.”

  “O.K.,” whispered Julia, flinching as another cracking sound echoed around them. “How does it start?”

  “I’ll sing the first verse to give you the tune,” said Lyssa, and as she spoke, the flame in front of them suddenly shimmered, like a just-plucked string, and a clear high note rose out of it, above the cracking noises from the globe.

  Lyssa inclined her head slightly at the flame, and it played an introduction of flowing, crystal-clear notes. Then Lyssa sang:

  Rowan to guard, leaf and tree

  holly to hide, thee and me

  sun-fire and green-tree sing

  to ward us here with the ring

  Lys

  Yrsal

  Carral

  Rolk

  Four runes of ancient folk…

  Julia listened, entranced, and the words seemed to flow into her, and relax the tight knot of fear that was building up inside her. There were other verses, and Lyssa sang them while Julia listened, breathing slowly, letting the words and music soothe her. When Lyssa returned to the first verse, Julia joined in and sang as well, the cracking noises and dark shapes momentarily forgotten.

  Then, as Lyssa and Julia came back to the first verse again, and the flame shivered out the last, echoing note, there was the loudest crack of all, and the Ragwitch’s hissing voice boomed everywhere:

  “Let us begin!”

  Julia snapped around to look at the globe, but it was gone—in its place floated thousands of glowing shards, slowly spinning out into the fluid. In the middle of this cloud of debris, something was uncoiling, sinuously weaving between the fragments, stretching its lean body out towards the ring of holly. It was like a snake—but not—for its body was easily a meter around, and its head was wide and many-toothed. Vestigial wings fluttered a little way behind its head, and as it stretched, long spikes reared up all along its back. The scales that lined its body were steely grey and blue, but its eyes were a luminous green, and flamed with a malign intelligence.

  “A worm,” said Mirran bleakly. “Even in my day they were no more than legend. But the old stories described them in some detail.”

  “I remember them,” said Lyssa, slowly, as if reaching far back into a long forgotten past. “There were two, when I was very young—and that was before any stories you may have read, Mirran. They came from the Nameless Realm…She must have good memories of that place…”

  “And welcome to them,” interrupted Anhyvar briskly. “I am glad my memories stop at the opening of that awful door. But I have read of these worms—they can be killed.”

  “A thrust inside the mouth, up into the brain,” said Mirran, his eyes watching the uncoiling worm, calculating its speed. “Or so the stories said.”

  “They spoke true,” replied Lyssa.

  “Yes—and it
must be dispatched soon,” said Anhyvar. “We are already at Alnwere Ford, and Her creatures have secured the crossing. She will be there before nightfall, and the Meepers say the King’s army is not large. Not after Reddow Cairn.”

  “Did you hear anything about Paul?” asked Julia anxiously, tearing her eyes away from the worm.

  Anhyvar hesitated, then said, “Yes. He was almost taken by Oroch and a Glazed-Wizard—but Borderors interfered, killing the Glazed-One and driving Oroch’s band away. He is pursuing them with a larger force—but they were very close to Alnwere.”

  “And Paul?” asked Julia, sensing something unspoken.

  “He was hit by a stone,” Anhyvar sighed. “Oroch saw him carried from the field.”

  “Oh!” cried Julia. “Do you know if…is he…I mean…”

  “No, I could not see…” Anhyvar began, but Lyssa interrupted her.

  “He has arrived at Alnwere,” she said. “Alive but unconscious. He is with the Healers, close by my tree. He is in good hands.”

  Julia started to ask if Lyssa knew any more, but before she could speak, Mirran suddenly pointed with his sword, and said quietly, “It has seen us.”

  Sure enough, the creature’s head was facing them, its eyes intent on the yellow flame. It reared up, its last coils straightening, and started swimming towards them through the fluid, its body wriggling like a sea snake, while its little wings fluttered on its back—a squirmy, silent progress that sent shivers up Julia’s spine. It looked about twelve meters long, and its toothy maw was big enough to swallow Julia whole.

  “Spears,” said Mirran to Anhyvar. “Can you bring us some? Do you remember the boar…?”

  “The boar spear you broke that day at Caringlass,” said Anhyvar, smiling. She reached out into the fluid, and there was a spear in her hand, with a steel cross-piece just behind the head. She handed it to Mirran, then reached out again, and drew forth a bow of dull steel and a quiverful of arrows fletched in the brightest green.

  “Yes…I remember that hunting party. How could I forget?”

  Mirran smiled back at her for a second, but his eyes never really left the approaching worm. It seemed cautious—perhaps the yellow flame was painful to its eyes, thought Julia—because it circled the ring of holly several spear lengths out, like a shark circumnavigating a sinking raft.

  Lyssa watched it circle for the second time, then said, “We’d better get something to stick in it, too, Julia.”

  “I don’t think I could carry one of those spears,” said Julia doubtfully. “Or use a bow…”

  “My spears are very light,” replied Lyssa. She reached into the yellow flame, said something under her breath, and pulled out two slender javelins with jagged heads like frozen lightning. She handed one to Julia, and took the other herself.

  Julia gripped it eagerly, and practiced a few stabbing motions. The javelin was neither light nor heavy, but seemed just right—good and solid. And it felt safer to have it in her hand, so at least she could do something. She thrust with it again, then moved aside as Anhyvar touched her shoulder.

  “Stand aside a little,” said the Witch, taking up her bow and shaking her hair to one side. “Let’s see what arrows can do in this strange water-air.”

  Her bowstring twanged, and an arrow sped into the fluid—slower than in air, and more erratic, but it struck the worm full on its armored coils, and bounced off. The worm didn’t even seem to notice, but it did tighten its circle, drawing closer to the ring of holly and its defenders.

  “The mouth,” said Mirran grimly, and he stepped forward to the very edge of the ring, and hefted his spear. Behind him, the other three ranged themselves at the ready, Anhyvar taking another of Lyssa’s lightning javelins.

  Just as she took it, the worm unwound, and with a shocking burst of speed, it struck!

  One moment, Paul was unconscious—and the next he was awake, his eyes open and staring up into a night sky. Stars twinkled everywhere above him, a great swathe of stars, brighter and clearer than any he’d seen before.

  Gradually, he became aware that he was lying on his back on some sort of hill or embankment, judging from the angle and the feel of grass at his neck. For some reason he didn’t feel like moving his head to look properly. It was easier just to stare up into the lovely blackness with the march of stars across it, and enjoy the sensation of flying under the sky.

  Then Paul heard the breathing next to him: low, soft and regular, and somehow not at all frightening. At first he thought it was some echo of his own breath, but the rhythm was completely different, the breaths longer.

  So he raised his head and had a look. The first thing he noticed was just how, light it was. There was no moon, but the stars were far, far brighter than any he’d seen before. The next thing was that the grassy slope he was lying on suddenly ended about twelve meters below—and there was nothing beyond and below except for black space and stars. The third thing was that the origin of the breathing was a dog—or rather, a statue of a dog. It looked like a sheep dog carved from petrified wood—as though it had been in the sea for a long, long time.

  Paul sat up properly to look at the edge of the hill, and at the dog statue, which was still making breathing sounds. He found it difficult to tell which way was up or down, and a wave of disorientation swept over him. Where were Quigin and Tanboule? Where were the Borderors who had charged up the slope at Rhysamarn? Where was he?

  Gingerly, Paul felt the back of his head, and winced as he felt the bruise there. For a second he wondered if that had made him go crazy, but he was pretty certain he’d never think of petrified sheep dogs and a hill that ended in nothing, even if he went completely raving mad. Even more gingerly than he’d felt his bruise, he leaned over and touched the dog—and the breathing stopped.

  The dog shimmered, and seemed to become even more petrified, until it was mirror-smooth, with the stars winking and blurring, reflecting on its surface. Then it just got brighter and brighter, and all the star reflections joined together to make one great star, and Paul couldn’t look at it. Then, it was gone, and there was a man lying next to Paul. His eyes were closed, and a faint smile curled up the bottom of his smooth, ageless face. Then one eye opened, a pupil swiveled towards Paul, and he sat up, head tilting back to look at the stars.

  “Celestial mechanics,” he said, indicating the heavens with a gentle sweep of his arm. “What makes the stars wheel their slow, slow way? As we move, and they seem to shift across our sky, they are moving too…but oh—so slightly! Even I, since the beginning, have only seen them slip a little way…and their elemental selves are so vigorous! Dancing and gossip, forever on the move…and yet, they are but the dreams of great incandescent globes. Wonderful, isn’t it?”

  “Er…yes,” said Paul hesitantly, somewhat unnerved by this strange man’s enthusiasm. “Could you…could you tell me where I am, please?”

  The man uncrossed his ankles and slowly bent his head back to look at the ground, idly picking up a daisy to chew—from a spot where there hadn’t been any daisies a second ago.

  “You mean you don’t know?” asked the man, in a voice that was younger than it had been. His face was younger too, and his hair, previously silver in the starlight, now reflected glints of yellow.

  “I don’t think so,” replied Paul uneasily. Out of the corner of his eye he could see daisies sprouting and growing up into full flower, everywhere along the hill. It wasn’t scary, but it was definitely eerie, and Paul felt the hair on his head sort of rise and get itchy at the back.

  “I’ll give you a clue,” said the man, who now looked about twenty years old (though still with a faint tinge of something ancient). He plucked a piece of colored paper from the air, and unfolded it into the sort of crown you could get from Christmas crackers. It rustled as he put it on. Unlike most cracker crowns, it fit perfectly.

  And Paul suddenly remembered things Tanboule had told him, and realized why the place was so strange, and the man stranger still.

  “This
must be the land of Dreams and Shadows,” he said, quite calmly. “And you’re the Patchwork King.”

  “I knew you’d get it eventually,” replied the Patchwork King, spitting out the daisy-stalk. “Pah! That tastes terrible! Would you care to join me for a cup of tea? Or coffee?”

  “Yes, please,” said Paul, frantically trying to remember what Tanboule had told him about the Patchwork King, and whether he was kind and good…or horrible…or just didn’t care…

  He got up as the Patchwork King leapt to his feet, and nearly walked into a stone wall that hadn’t been there an instant before. The King took a huge iron key from his belt, gently moved some tendrils of wild rose, and pushed it into an equally large keyhole. When he turned it, a whole section of the wall pivoted, and sunlight streamed through.

  They stepped through into a garden at noon, with Paul sneaking a glance behind him. Sure enough, the stars still gleamed there, despite the sun beating down on this side of the wall.

  Paul followed the King through the garden, trying not to stare at the strange plants and oddities that were everywhere: statues, and strange mechanical inventions, wind chimes, and birds that seemed to be made of ice, but which flew and sang in the warm sunlight.

  Eventually they came to a tall, impenetrable hedge, and the Patchwork King produced another key, which he touched to the spiky foliage. Nothing happened for a moment, then the hedge stirred and the branches moved apart, till there was a round hole through to the other side.

  The Patchwork King bent down and crawled through on all fours. So Paul did likewise, emerging onto cool flagstones. It was nighttime again here—or twilight, Paul thought, as he got up and looked around.

  He stood in a courtyard of time candles, all steadily burning, the hours marked in red down their sides. Each said seven, so Paul presumed that was the time. Beyond the candles was a lawn dominated by a huge sundial of rough-carved stone. Beyond that was a small hill, with a ring of broken stones around its crest. A great tree grew from the top of the hill, with wide-spreading branches, and white flowers spilling their petals on everything below.