by Garth Nix
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 s
ee 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.”
Mirran gave a slight bow, and said, “I was neither sane nor even human for much of the time. I have Julia and your golden wand to thank for a return…from the shape and thoughts of a beast. And I thank you for that, Lady, and for all you have done for the Kingdom.”
Lyssa smiled, and turned to Anhyvar, taking her by the hand, “I see you know what the evil you summoned has done, both in your body as North-Queen, and now, as Ragwitch. It has been a long time since we stood together on Alnwere, before the Pool. A very long time, and full of horrors. Do you remember the vision we saw there, and none of us understood it? Or how it would come to pass?”
“Yes,” replied Anhyvar. “I remember, and now I understand. I only hope it was not a false seeing, and that I come to it soon.”
“What vision was this?” asked Mirran gravely, and Julia added, “Did it show what’s going to happen?”
But Anhyvar shook her head, and said, “I cannot speak of it, or it may be altered. Now, my Lady Lyssa, would you care for some refreshment?”
“Water would be nice,” said Lyssa. “It is such a strain keeping myself from the tree that is so firmly fixed in your memory.”
“Oh—of course,” said Anhyvar, rather surprised. “But I only met you in human form once, and as a Rowan, many times.”
“Never mind,” laughed Lyssa, taking a goblet of water from Anhyvar. “Normally I prefer to be a Rowan. But to the business at hand—we must plan what we can do against the Ragwitch. Perhaps you have had time to gauge your strength against Her, Anhyvar. After all, She is still part of you—or you of Her.”
“The evil and pride, augmented and nourished by the Nameless Realm,” said Anhyvar, rather remotely, as if she didn’t want to talk about it. “And I have little power within, or over Her. I may move around the memory a little—perhaps even take control of the body…such as it is…for a brief while. But then She would find me and crush me forever—not just put me back to sleep. And to do anything, I would have to move out of this memory to Her main consciousness.”
“Or perhaps a part of Her main consciousness She has Herself walled off as a prison for those She absorbs,” said Lyssa. “I found it reasonably easy to exist there, though I did not have the power to watch through Her eyes, or to catch Her thoughts.”
“You mean the place of the white globe?” asked Julia. Mirran nodded too, to show his familiarity with that prison.
“Yes,” said Anhyvar, tracing a pattern in the sand, her forehead creased in thought. “It would be easier to wrest control from there, and harder for Her to fight me. But I will need everyone’s strength to help, and even then I fear we could only take control of Her body briefly, and prevent her casting spells.”
“That may be enough,” said Mirran. “If we can make Her cast Herself into the sea or something…” He paused as both Lyssa and Anhyvar shook their heads, red and silver hair flying.
“No, of course,” he said wearily. “She has the body of a rag doll—She can’t drown…but perhaps a fire…”
“She’s not stuffed with real straw,” said Julia. “When She went down into the Namyr Gorge…a man threw a flaming torch at Her, and the flames just burnt around Her, and didn’t do anything!”
Mirran sighed at this, and massaged the back of his left hand, thinking. Lyssa and Anhyvar were silent, both staring out across the water.
“We have to do something!” burst out Julia, who was thinking of Paul. “Couldn’t we make Her fall down a pit or something? Anything!”
“Perhaps,” said Lyssa. “Whatever we do, I think we should soon return to the place of the white globe. From that hiding place, we may see our opportunity. Also, the twig-maid fails—and if She realizes that it is not the real Julia, all may be lost.”
“Yes,” said Anhyvar. “We shall go to the white globe.”
She stood, drew the silver star from her dress, and held it up. “Join hands, everyone, and I will take us there.”
As she spoke, the star grew until it was a shining doorway against the blue of the sky. They all linked hands, and Anhyvar stepped through, followed by Mirran and Julia, with Lyssa last of all.
17
Reddow Cairn
PAUL LOOKED BACK ON Caer Follyn with some regret, as the column of Borderors and fisherfolk wound through the gate and onto the inland road. Behind him, Paul knew, lay comfortable beds in warm rooms, and meals on plates, which were eaten sitting at tables. Ahead lay discomfort and danger.
But the prospect of danger seemed lessened by the presence of Aleyne’s force, which to Paul’s eyes was at least a small army. There were several hundred heavily armed fisherfolk in the column, and at least a hundred Borderors, with many more Borderors spread out ahead and to the flanks, where they watched for marauding Gwarulch.
Quigin was up ahead too, being asked questions by Cagael, who was also supervising the dogs, who loped well in advance of everyone, to sniff out any hidden North-Creatures.
At the front of the column, resplendent in steel back and breastplates over a bright buff coat, Aleyne walked beside his horse. A few of the other Borderors had horses too, and one had offered Paul a ride—but he hadn’t liked it, finding it almost as much of an effort as walking, and more uncomfortable.
Strangely enough, the prospect of a long day’s walk didn’t trouble him, even with the pack Aleyne had made up for him, which Aleyne joked was twice the weight of the one he’d left for the Gwarulch in Ornware’s Wood. He had a sword now too, or as Aleyne called it, a poniard—a thin, sharply-pointed stabbing weapon. It was strapped to his pack. He’d tried wearing it at his belt, but he kept tripping over it, and it was generally awkward. Paul still hoped he wouldn’t have to use it.
He looked back at the castle again, and waved to Sevaun, who was watching from the gatehouse wall. Deamus and Oel were marching with the column, but they’d made Sevaun stay behind with the other children, the wounded and the older folk, along with a very few able-bodied villagers, to keep Caer Follyn safe from roving bands of North-Creatures.
Paul wished that he didn’t have to go, but he had an opposite feeling too, a determination to do something about the Ragwitch, a feeling that almost rivalled his desire to stay safe and warm and fed. And he could always think of Julia, and what she must be suffering, if he needed anything to spur him on.
It was a beautiful day for the march, so it was easier to be cheerful about the prospects ahead. Some of the Borderors were whistling; the fisherfolk talked among their ranks, of fish and the sea; and always there was the steady tramp, tramp, tramp of boots on the gravelled road. Above, Rip and Tear circled, sole specks of color in the deep blue sky. It seemed a day when everything could only be happy.
Paul waved at the castle one last time, and ran to get his place back at the front of the column, where Deamus and Oel marched at the head of the Donbreye villagers, their pikes all slanted over their shoulders at the same angle, steel pike-heads and helmets glinting in the sun. Paul took up his place at the corner, and fell into step with them, picking up the rhythm of their talk, and thinking no more of featherbeds, leak-proof rooms, or lazing by the fire.
After four days of hard marching, they reached the top of Sanhow Hill—the easternmost of a chain of hills that ran towards Caer Calbore from the settled lowlands, and, therefore, a natural place to stop any south-bound enemy. Aleyne had expected to find the King’s army there, but there were only a pair of grizzled old farmers camped atop the hill, their rusty armor and muddy tent fine camouflage—though not against Cagael’s eagles, or the dogs, who sniffed them out immediately.
They told Aleyne that the rest of the
army had marched on that morning—only a few hours ago. The remnants of their camp were visible in the valley below—faintly smoking fires, a broken wagon wheel, and heaps of raw earth from the digging of fire-pits and latrines.
“Where are they marching to?” asked Aleyne, shading his face against the harsh midday sun, and looking out along the row of hills.
“Reddow Cairn,” replied one of the farmers. “The King’s Friend of Beasts has swifts…”
“Oh, that’s Neric,” interrupted Quigin. He started to ask a question, but Aleyne gestured for silence, and the farmer continued.
“Aye—Neric. His swifts brought news…She is marching with a great host, following the Yanel south. They’re bound to cross the hills at Reddow Cairn.”
“A long, low ridge—between two hills…” said Aleyne, as if he was trying to remember it.
“Yes,” said Cagael, taking it as a question. “There was a battle there many centuries ago between the North-Queen and King Mirran. It was Her first major victory. The cairn that gives the ridge its name was raised in memory of those that fell in the battle.”
“How…how far away is it?” asked Paul, nervously. He’d felt quite safe until all this talk of Her winning battles as the North-Queen. Now, on this stark hill, he looked down at the lines of soldiers resting down the hillside, weapons close at hand, and the sun bouncing off them and lighting up faces and helmet-tousled hair. They looked like very ordinary men and women, and what Paul had thought was a huge force seemed insignificant among the open hills and the empty camp below.
“Not far,” said the farmer, pointing. “Reddow Cairn lies between the next two hills. The ridge itself begins on the far side of that hill, and runs northwest to the next one, so you won’t see it till you get real close.”
Paul shaded his eyes and peered in the direction the farmer pointed. All he could see was a large steep hill, covered in the usual grey-green grass and small trees.
