by Garth Nix
Then Quigin yelped and pointed. “Look—there, on the side of the hill. That must be the King’s army!”
Sure enough, on the southwestern side of the hill, they could see a dark column moving around the slope, the sun twinkling on helmets and pike-heads. It was a very long column, twisting and turning as it rose up out of a valley and around the hill. Paul held his breath as he watched, and then let it out with a whoosh of excitement, as there was a sudden, splendid flash of gold amongst the column, and Aleyne said, “That was the Royal Standard. The King is there.”
They watched in silence for a few minutes after that, and Paul felt his courage return with the sight of that imposing column of soldiers. It still hadn’t passed, and he was trying to estimate its length, and how many people must be in it, when his thoughts were broken by a harsh whistle, and the sound of beating wings above.
Instinctively, he ducked and felt for his poniard, then relaxed as Tear plummeted down onto Ethric’s back. Cagael hurried over, and calmed the madly flapping eagle, before staring into his eyes to find out what he had seen. Seconds later, he turned back toward Reddow Cairn, and said, “Look at the sky! Can you see…”
His voice broke off as everyone clearly could see—thin black clouds were billowing in from the north towards the hill that the King’s army was slowly climbing. Everyone stared, knowing these were no normal clouds, nor really clouds at all. But it was Aleyne who said it.
“Meepers. More Meepers than I have ever seen…” He looked for another second, then snapped into activity, shouting down the hill, “To arms! To arms! The Ragwitch attacks! We must be at Reddow Cairn in time for battle!”
Paul shivered as Aleyne shouted, and half-guiltily looked around, to see if anyone else looked as afraid as he was. But Aleyne was leaping onto his horse, Quigin was talking to Tear, and Cagael to Ethric. Only Leasel returned his gaze, and he was relieved to see her ears quivering, as if in fright.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered to the hare, as he picked up his helmet from the ground. “I’ll find the other two Elementals…and…we’ll beat Her for sure…”
Leasel’s ears stopped quivering, and Paul felt braver as he buckled on his helmet. Tightening the chin-strap, he repeated his words over to himself, and thought of Julia waiting for him to rescue her. I absolutely have to be brave, he told himself. No matter what happens.
The ring of turf and holly was dry and curling at the edges, and looked almost black in the harsh light of the white globe. Yet as Julia, Lyssa, Mirran and Anhyvar swam toward it, and onto it, both turf and holly regained some of their old life.
Then Lyssa took the golden wand from Julia, planted it in the center of the ring, and sang: a song of lilting, liquid notes, that spoke of summer and cleansing rain without the need of words. As Lyssa sang, Julia felt her skin tingle all along her spine, and golden sparks drifted up the wand, and there was the scent of new green trees. At the end of the song, Lyssa suddenly clapped her hands, and the wand answered with a crack! In an instant, the wand was gone, and in its place, a gold-yellow flame flickered gently, and the turf was once again a pleasant green.
“There,” said Lyssa. “We are safe again, at least for a time. Now I shall try to call the twig-maid back from the Ragwitch’s senses…”
“No need,” said Anhyvar, pointing at the white globe. “She is already here.”
“Don’t look, Julia,” said Lyssa, firmly. Julia opened her mouth to ask why, then shut both her mouth and her eyes—for she had caught a glimpse of the twig-maid, feebly swimming back towards the ring of braided holly. A glimpse of herself, somehow twisted and fading, colorless and see-through as an old shirt—the result of being continuously tied to the Ragwitch’s evil mind and senses.
Anhyvar took Julia’s hand as she felt Mirran shift nervously at her side. Even he, a veteran of many atrocious sights in war, was shocked by what he saw.
Julia felt, rather than saw, the twig-maid arrive and collapse at Lyssa’s feet. Then she heard Lyssa sing a brief, sad song, and there was the sound of a harp lamenting. When Julia opened her eyes, there was no sign of her temporary double—only a slight smell of smoke, and the faintest touch of ash upon the turf.
“She served her purpose well,” said Lyssa, seeing Julia’s stricken face looking at the last spray of smoke wafting up above the yellow flame. “And she was never truly alive.”
“I know,” whispered Julia, “it’s just that—it could have been me…”
“But it wasn’t,” said Lyssa cheerily. “And it won’t be. We’ll get Her yet—didn’t I say so, when there was just the two of us? Look at what you’ve already done!”
Julia nodded and smiled, grateful that Anhyvar hadn’t let go of her hand. Everything certainly did seem more hopeful than in past days—particularly those times when she had been alone, and forced to watch everything through the eyes of the Ragwitch.
That thought reminded her of Paul, and she turned to Anhyvar, and said, “Can you tell what’s happening outside? Is Paul all right? She hasn’t got him…?”
“No!” said Anhyvar. “Neither She nor Her creatures have your brother. And I think I can do better than tell you what is happening…I can show you, through Her eyes. If you wish it.”
“I would like to see the Kingdom, and what occurs,” said Mirran. “But are you sure it will not draw Her attention to us?”
Anhyvar nodded, and said, “Her thoughts are taken up with the ordering of Her army.”
“There is to be a battle?” asked Mirran. He clenched his hands as he spoke, and clicked his nails against each other, obviously agitated, then added, “Who comes against Her?”
“The present King, and all the force he can muster,” replied Anhyvar, her eyes looking past Mirran, and out through the blackness beyond. “Her Meepers watch as their army marches from the south—many columns from all over the Kingdom, marching to join the King. They are all coming to a long, low hill…the Meepers speak of many banners shining as the sun lowers in the sky…the hill is called…Reddow Cairn.”
“I knew a Reddow Hill,” said Mirran quietly, almost to himself. “But in my time, there was no cairn. We fought the North-Queen along the ridge between two hills—it was a fierce and savage battle, the first of many that She won. My brother Asaran fell there, borne down by many Gwarulch. It is a place She knows well…an evil omen for the battle to come.”
Anhyvar blinked, released Julia’s hand, and unpinned her star once again. Holding it to her forehead, she whispered a few words, too soft and strange for Julia to catch, and said, “Close your eyes everyone, be silent—and we shall see what She sees.”
Julia obediently shut her eyes, rather too tightly at first, so she saw a sort of tense red light everywhere. Then she relaxed a little, and the red slowly cleared, to be replaced with sunlight. Sound started to filter in, too; the rush of the wind, the snorts and whining of Gwarulch, and the crushing noise of Angarling lumbering nearby. Above all was the voice of the Ragwitch, as Julia had often heard it—through Her own cloth-dulled ears.
It was late afternoon, and the sunlight was harsh and bright, casting long shadows along the ground. The Ragwitch was moving inside a ring of Angarling, the great stones moving faster than Julia had seen before, their irregular, rocking glide finding a new, faster rhythm. They were climbing a wide flat-topped hill of grey-green grass and few trees.
To either side of the Ragwitch, and as far as Julia could see out of the corners of Her eyes, Gwarulch loped along in bands of thirty or forty, each with its chieftain at the head—always a Gwarulch of unusual size and savagery.
There were many Glazed-Folk too, half running in an erratic weave, their red-stained eyes fixed on the ground ahead, tongues hanging out like panting beasts. They carried weapons of all kinds, and howled like the Gwarulch.
Above, dark clouds of Meepers swept the sky, their shadows flitting across the sunlit hill. Every few minutes, a lone Meeper would fly in from ahead, or from one side, and harshly croak its message out to Oroch. He s
topped to listen, then ran to catch up with Her again like a spider in a stop-start dash across a kitchen floor.
Julia ran her gaze along this whole vast army, and felt the speed and strength of it, and the terrible sense of purpose and anticipation they all seemed to have. At first she couldn’t understand it—then she saw sunlight glint on steel along the ridge above, and the vast roar that could only come from human throats, and suddenly, the top of the hill was lined with human soldiers.
Right in the center of the ridge, a knot of horsemen rode under several great banners, and Julia knew this must be where the King was. She wondered if he was like Mirran, and felt that he must be, to bring his army to fight Her, instead of fleeing or hiding.
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 soldier 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.
