Igraine the Brave

by Cornelia Funke

  As you turn to run away.

  The bundles of brushwood exploded with a mighty bang, and the wheels dropped off the catapults and rolled away at top speed. Fountains of colored light shot high in the air; sparks fell into the water lilies and rained down on Osmund’s men. Cursing, they ran about in confusion to get away from the jets of fire. But the knights commanding them drove the men back to the moat with their swords and made them scoop up water to put out the flames.

  “Who cares if they bail out the whole moat?” said Albert as the Book of Magic shut itself with a self-satisfied sigh.

  “Those catapults are finished. I wrecked half a dozen others yesterday. Look at those fools slopping water all over their hands. They’ll have webbed fingers by noon.” He turned to Igraine and the Sorrowful Knight with a pleased smile. “How did you like my fireworks show? First-rate magic, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, definitely first-rate,” Igraine agreed. “But you’d better take a look down there now. They’ve nearly finished building their wooden bridges.”

  “So they have. Busy, busy little bees,” commented Albert, looking bored. “Why don’t you call in the snakes to deal with that, little sister? They’re happier to obey you than me. Hey, what’s going on there?” He snapped his fingers, and a hail of burning arrows shot by Osmund’s archers to set fire to the drawbridge turned above the moat in an elegant curve. Albert snapped his fingers a second time, and the arrows hissed back toward the startled archers, leaving a fiery tail behind them. Terrified, the men raised their shields, but the arrows buzzed around them like giant dragonflies all aflame and attacked the archers from behind. Soon every arrow was chasing an archer through the camp.

  Igraine would have loved to watch the rest of the show, but Albert was right — it was time to call in the snakes. Presumably they were down on the bed of the moat, hiding from the unaccustomed noise that Osmund’s men were kicking up, but Igraine knew they would hear her all the same. A sharp hiss through her teeth, a dozen of Albert’s biscuits, and next moment the water around the water lilies was rippling, and three snakes raised their heads from the moat.

  Osmund’s soldiers were so busy laying their footbridges across the enchanted water that they never even noticed the snakes. But the snakes had noticed them. They shot through the water, hissing angrily, coiled around the bridges, and squeezed them until the wood splintered. Five bridge builders fell into the moat in their fright, adding a few more fish to it.

  Igraine shook her head at their clumsiness. “I thought this man Osmund could work magic?” she inquired. “We haven’t seen much of that yet. Oh, my word, Sisyphus!” she exclaimed, as the tomcat dropped a long fish bone in her lap, shimmering and suspiciously silvery. “Have you gone and eaten another of those knight-fish? I’m afraid I’ll have to shut you in somewhere.”

  Sisyphus showed his contempt by catching a buzzing fly and consuming it with a loud smack of his lips.

  “Oh, let him alone.” Albert came to his help, shooing his mice back as they raised their heads from his coat pocket and stuck their tiny tongues out at Sisyphus. “That’s all the knights deserve!”

  But the Sorrowful Knight shook his head. “Show mercy to the men down below, noble Albert,” he said. “I know they have designs on your life and the lives of your family, but many of them aren’t doing it of their own free will. Osmund’s knights have dragged them away from their fields and their homes and brought them here. Where else would all these soldiers come from? Half of them probably don’t even know why Osmund is laying siege to Pimpernel.”

  “Did you hear that, Sisyphus?” Igraine turned to her sulky cat with a stern expression. “No more of those silver fish, however good they taste. Otherwise I’ll let Albert turn you into a dog after all.”

  “We’re not friends anymore,” growled the tomcat.

  “But I’d turn you into a nice dog, Sisyphus,” said Albert, feeding the mice in his pocket with a few biscuit crumbs. “Osmund could never do that. His magic powers really aren’t anything special. Yesterday he was trying harder than today, but some spells don’t even occur to him. Even if he had the books, our friend Osmund would never be a great magician. I’d say he’s passed Grade Five at the very most.” And with a conspiratorial smile, he bent down to the little Book of Magic that sat sleepily on his lap, blinking as the sun slowly rose higher in the sky. “We showed him some real magic between us, right?”

  Flattered, the book chuckled and stroked its own pages.

  “Noble Albert, would that be Osmund over there?” asked the Sorrowful Knight, pointing to a figure down among the tents.

  “You’re right, it is!” replied Albert. “Let’s see what he has to offer now.”

  Two servants carried the new master of Darkrock up to the moat in an upholstered armchair and put it down beside the water.

  “Shall I fetch Mama and Papa?” asked Igraine, trying not to show that Osmund’s look of determination made her a little anxious after all.

  But Albert shook his head. “No, no, I can deal with this on my own. They’re preparing the magic to change themselves back, so we don’t want to disturb them, or we might have piggy parents for the rest of our lives.”

  “All right, have it your own way,” murmured Igraine, while Osmund slowly and deliberately rose from his chair. The archers lowered their bows. The new catapults that had been wheeled up stopped, and all the soldiers looked at their lord and master. An eerie silence fell over Pimpernel Castle. And when Osmund raised his hands in the air, Igraine saw that he had blackened his palms with soot.

  “Ah, sooty hands,” whispered Albert. “I think I know what spell he’s going to try. Page 637, book. Quick!”

  The little Book of Magic hastily began leafing through its pages.

  Down by the moat Osmund closed his eyes, raised his blackened hands a little higher, and called in a menacing voice:

  Rotten bridge, come down for me,

  To my will obedient be!

  Recognize that my black heart

  Now commands the magic art.

  Lie down, bridge, obey you must,

  Or you will burn to ash and dust.

  The stone lions bared their teeth and roared angrily down at him. The gargoyles made faces. But the hinges of the drawbridge squealed — and slowly it began to lower itself toward the moat.

  Osmund’s men waved their swords jubilantly in the air.

  “Albert, do something!” cried Igraine in alarm. “Quick.”

  “Yes, all right!” called Albert back. “Have you found that page yet, book?”

  “It’s stuck!” wailed the book, leafing through its pages with trembling fingers. “There must be jam on it.”

  “Jam?” thundered Albert. “Haven’t we always forbidden you books to snack on jam or anything else sticky?” He roughly picked up the book and tried to separate the pages that were stuck together.

  But the drawbridge went on lowering itself.

  Osmund looked up at Albert with a mocking smile. His soldiers gathered behind the chair, ready to charge over the faithless bridge and into the castle. “I’ll have it in a minute!” cried Albert, fiddling frantically with the little book. “It won’t take more than a few seconds.”

  “Come with me, noble Igraine!” cried the Sorrowful Knight, and in his clanking armor he raced to the flight of steps leading down to the courtyard. “We must block the chain!” he called to her. “Fetch lances, spears, anything.”

  Igraine nodded, and ran to the armory so fast that she stumbled over her own feet.

  Meanwhile, the Sorrowful Knight braced his weight against the crank that worked the drawbridge. It was moving as if a ghostly hand were turning it. He tried desperately to turn it back the other way, but Osmund’s magic was too strong, and however hard the Sorrowful Knight tried, the bridge went on coming down — more slowly, to be sure, but it was still lowering itself. And when he finally stuck his sword into one of the links in the chain, the point of the sword broke off.

  “Here, tak
e these!” cried Igraine, throwing him all the lances she had been able to find in her haste. They thrust their shafts through the iron links of the chain one by one to stop it from moving, but lance after lance splintered — and still the bridge was coming down. There was already a gap showing in the wall, and soon only the wood of the gate would protect the castle.

  But suddenly Igraine heard a shrill chanting from the battlements, and the next moment Albert’s voice rang out loud and clear:

  Faithless bridge, rise up, rise high,

  Or I’ll turn you to a fly.

  I’ll feed you to the birds of prey,

  As driftwood you will float away.

  I’m warning you,

  Don’t anger me,

  Or furious as a bull I’ll be.

  Osmund’s men groaned. The bridge stopped, swinging on its rusty chains — and refused to move an inch farther down.

  Osmund ranted.

  Osmund raged.

  He stamped his feet, smeared the soot from his hands all over his face in his fury, and threw first his armchair and then his servants into the moat. The bridge still didn’t budge.

  Spell after magic spell Osmund cast on the castle, but they all bounced off like clods of earth thrown by a child against a knight’s shield.

  Meanwhile Igraine and the Sorrowful Knight clung to the crank, not daring to let go of it. Only when Albert signaled to them from the battlements did they cautiously, very cautiously, raise the drawbridge again.

  Igraine’s legs were still trembling when they were standing behind the battlements again.

  Sisyphus padded up to meet her and rubbed his head against her knee.

  “Oh, so we’re friends again after all, are we?” she asked.

  “Friends,” purred Sisyphus, stalking away with his tail upright in the air.

  “Keep away from that moat!” Igraine called after him, but the cat had already vanished down the steps.

  “He’s always slinking off to the little gate down there in the wall,” said Albert. “One nudge of his nose, and it’s so rotten it opens at once. Well, how do you think we did, little sister?” He leaned back casually against the battlements with the Book of Magic on his shoulder. They both looked very pleased with themselves and the world in general.

  “It was terrific,” replied Igraine, peering over the wall. “Apart from the jam, that is.”

  Osmund had disappeared, like his chair.

  “Strawberry jam!” Albert sighed. “Those books have been forbidden to touch jam for at least a hundred years, but they’re crazy for anything sweet and sticky.”

  The little book cleared its throat with an embarrassed sound, wiped some dust off its cover, and looked the other way.

  “May I ask you a question, noble Albert?” said the Sorrowful Knight. Out by the moat, Osmund’s men were rolling heavy rocks up to the few catapults that were still working. The attackers weren’t giving up in a hurry.

  “Of course. What is it?” Albert replied.

  The knight hesitated for a moment. Then he asked, “Where is Rowan Heartless? Your sister told me that he is Osmund’s castellan.”

  “Oh, you mean the Iron Hedgehog.” Albert sat down on the wall again. The little Book of Magic hummed, Albert rubbed his hands together, and the rocks in the catapults turned into tiny dragons fluttering swiftly away. “He rode off this morning with a few soldiers, probably to steal pigs and chickens from the peasants in the nearest village so that Osmund can feed his army. He wasn’t outside the castle yesterday morning, either; he didn’t turn up until around midday.”

  “Ah,” murmured the Sorrowful Knight, and he gazed into the distance, lost in thought.

  Igraine looked sideways at him, rather worried.

  “Coming with me?” she asked, to give him something else to think about. “I’d like to see how my parents are getting on with the magic that’s supposed to turn them into humans again.”

  The Sorrowful Knight looked at Albert. “Do you need my help?”

  “No, no, off you go,” said Albert. “I’m doing fine on my own. Osmund will sulk for a while now. He always does when his spells don’t work. But send me up a few biscuits. And by the way, little sister,” he added, “your cat has just caught three more fish in the moat. Very silvery fish. He’s sitting outside the little gate.”

  20

  Sir Lamorak and the Fair Melisande were stirring something with sticks in a large cauldron when Igraine and the Sorrowful Knight entered the magic workshop.

  “I think we need a little more angelica, my love,” mumbled Sir Lamorak. The stick he was holding in his snout almost slipped out as he spoke.

  “More angelica? Yes, you could be right.” The Fair Melisande turned to the books, which were playing hide-and-seek under the table. “Would one of you be kind enough to fetch us a pinch of powdered angelica?”

  Grumbling, the smallest book set off for the next room.

  “Well, how’s it going?” asked Igraine. “When will the magic potion be ready?”

  “Potion? Oh, goodness me, we don’t drink it, honey!” replied Melisande. “We just have to take a bath in it, understand? The giant’s hairs have dissolved nicely. Now the whole thing has to steep in a magic vessel for six hours, and then we pour it into a tub down in the bathhouse and mix it with warm water. I think we’ll be ready to start turning back into human form as soon as the sun sets.”

  “Yes, and by midnight at the latest we’ll have turned that Osmund into the nastiest creature we can think of,” said Sir Lamorak. “What’s the wretch doing now?”

  “Oh, Albert has everything in hand,” said Igraine. She didn’t mention the drawbridge and the strawberry jam. Her parents had enough worries of their own.

  “Did Albert tell you there could be a little problem while we take the magic bath?” asked her mother.

  The book came back with the angelica, climbed up on Melisande’s bristly back, and tipped the powder into the ginger-colored brew. A delicious smell rose to all their noses.

  “Another problem?” asked Igraine anxiously.

  “I’m afraid so, my dear.” Sir Lamorak gave the brew another good stir and then threw his stick into the corner. “This transformation will need all the magic power available at Pimpernel. So your mother and I are afraid that our defenses — er — won’t be operating at full strength while we’re taking the magic bath. Do you see what I mean?”

  Igraine frowned. “You mean the gargoyles, the lions, the water snakes, the magic spell on the moat …”

  “… will be out of action.” Her father finished the sentence for her. “So to speak.”

  This was clearly bad news. Very bad news. “Then Albert is going to have his hands full,” murmured Igraine. “How will he manage? He can’t be everywhere at once. How long will it take your magic bath to work?”

  “About an hour,” replied Sir Lamorak. “If none of the books fall in. If they do, it will take a bit longer. They’re rather clumsy sometimes.”

  “An hour!” Worried, Igraine went to the window and looked out. The sky had clouded over. It was raining. But Osmund’s soldiers were still bombarding Pimpernel with arrows, fire, and stones. They had already built new wooden footbridges for crossing the moat, and now they were making rafts and trying to shoot ropes with iron hooks attached up to the battlements. There was only too good a view of all this from the tower. Igraine even saw horses pulling a mighty battering ram toward the castle. Although several men were urging them on, they were making slow progress, but at some time or other they would reach the moat. Were they planning to break down the castle walls with the battering ram, or make a hole in the drawbridge? More work for Albert, thought Igraine, turning her back to the window. A gloomy silence filled the workshop.

  Until the Sorrowful Knight cleared his throat.

  “When exactly do you mean to work your shape-changing magic?” he asked the two pigs.

  “We can get into the tub at sunset,” replied the Fair Melisande. “Osmund usually stops attac
king about then, but he’ll probably notice that our magical defenses are down, because I am sorry to say that the gargoyles snore heavily when they fall into a deep sleep of that kind, and the lions don’t look very terrifying, either.”

  The Sorrowful Knight nodded. “Very well,” he said. “Then there’s only one way to make sure that you are undisturbed. I will challenge Rowan Heartless, whom you call the Spiky Knight, to single combat at sunset. I am sure Osmund will pause in his attack on your castle while his castellan takes up my challenge. And his soldiers will want to watch us, too. No one will notice that Pimpernel is almost undefended, and you can regain your proper shapes without any danger that the castle will be captured.”

  What on earth was he talking about?

  “But you said you couldn’t defeat him!” cried Igraine. “You said you feared him more than anything in the world! No! Pimpernel is our castle, so …” Igraine looked as determined as she possibly could. “… so I’ll distract Osmund’s attention by challenging the Spiky Knight myself.”

  “You, honey?” squealed her horrified parents.

  But the Sorrowful Knight put his hand on her shoulder and looked at her gravely, much too gravely for her liking.

  “Noble Igraine,” he said. “Your fearless heart does you great credit. But sometimes fearlessness is not a good counselor. You must learn to fear some things, and to judge your own strength properly. A girl of twelve, however brave, cannot possibly face a battle-hardened knight like Rowan in combat. He will hold you up to derision and tread your pride in the dust. No. I will fight the Spiky Knight — if he accepts my challenge. I only hope I can keep him occupied a little longer than I did at our last meetings. But at least I am a fit and proper opponent for him. Can you understand that?”

  Igraine bent her head and wiped some dove droppings off her armor. “Yes, I’m afraid so,” she muttered. “But I’m worried about you.”

  That made the Sorrowful Knight smile. “There’s no need, believe me. Rowan Heartless takes no pleasure in killing his opponents. He prefers to humiliate them again and again. And he wouldn’t want to deprive himself of that pleasure by killing me, do you see?”