The Caller

by Juliet Marillier

  All around the circle, people had thrown off concealing cloaks to reveal weapons of wood, of bone, of the pale shining substance I had seen in the north. Everywhere, men, women and Good Folk hurled themselves against the might of the king’s men. Beings flew down from the sky, appeared from the earth, shimmered into substance from thin air. Tali’s rebels, both human and fey, could now be seen to be wearing white tokens: scarves, ribbons, belts, headbands. I guessed Tali had ordered this so her army had some chance of telling friend from foe in the chaos.

  The noise was like a wild creature: the area rang with the battle-cries of the combatants and the screams of the onlookers, for not everyone in the crowd was a fighter. Folk scrambled to get out of the way as the battle spilled beyond the open area into the space intended for people to sit on the grass and watch the Gathering. Keldec was shouting orders; the queen was screaming at Esten. The Caller was shouting too. Dimly I heard it as he stood with arms outstretched, something about obedience, compliance, a dire punishment if they did not obey. But in the power of my call, Esten’s was lost.

  ‘Fight for Alban!’ yelled Rock-face.

  ‘Doon wi’ the king!’ screamed Bird-claws, and Keldec’s uncanny army was off, charging toward the melee. Wolf Troop moved with them. Not to hold them back, but to help them; to protect them. The Wolves were fighting on our side. The men of Stag Troop did not move from their position in front of the royal party.

  ‘Have faith,’ said the Master of Shadows, gazing with interest as Enforcer clashed with Enforcer, and men began to fall. ‘But do not flag,’ for I was feeling queasy now, as if I might be sick or collapse in a dead faint. Where was Flint? I could not see him anywhere. Where was Sage?

  ‘Stay strong,’ the Master said. ‘Your work is not yet done. Remember what I told you.’

  ‘Forward, the North!’ yelled Lannan Long-Arm, and from all around him men in his grey colours vaulted the barrier and ran to join battle.

  ‘To arms, Glenfalloch!’ shouted Gormal, and men in green poured down to add their support to Lannan’s fighters. There were white tokens on the clothing of both households, revealed only now. But no tokens for the men of Wolf Troop, in their Enforcer black. They’d surely be attacked by rebel and king’s man alike. To my untutored eye it looked as if the Wolves were not the only troop to change allegiance – on many parts of the field, Enforcer now fought Enforcer. Had Seal Troop, too, switched to the rebel side? This was indeed a day of change.

  ‘All troops, forward!’ cried Keldec. ‘Rid me of this rabble! Stag Troop, to me! Seize these disobedient chieftains!’

  The seating was now empty of warriors, save for six of Gormal’s men-at-arms who held their positions around me and the Master of Shadows – he did in fact seem to be invisible to them. The confrontation down there dwarfed the battle I had witnessed last autumn when Regan’s rebels had accounted for the whole of Boar Troop. Indeed, so much was happening that people seemed to have forgotten that I was playing a part in it. The chieftains of Alban were all on their feet.

  As the battle raged, Stag Troop obeyed Keldec’s order, splitting into two groups. One team stayed in place down below the seating, using their weapons to defend themselves if any of the combatants came too close, but not moving out into the fight. The other team climbed the steps in a grim, black-clad line with Rohan Death-Blade in the lead. When they reached the king’s level they moved to encircle the royal party and the chieftains in a formidable human shield.

  But no; this was not a shield, it was a cage. These troopers weren’t protecting Keldec and Varda, their councillors, their Caller, their loyal chieftains, but making sure they didn’t get away. My jaw dropped as I saw Rohan let first Lannan, then Gormal, then Ness of Corriedale and lastly Sconlan of Glenbuie leave the guarded area. The four chieftains ran onto the field of battle, drawing their swords and rallying their clans.

  ‘Four,’ observed the Master of Shadows. ‘Remarkable.’

  The men of Corriedale and Glenbuie charged forward at their chieftains’ call and joined the fight. I struggled to keep my concentration; to remember what I had been taught, and to be ready to call again. It was a confusion of screams and shouts, the thump of blows, the shriek of metal on metal. It was blood and death. My stomach churned; spots danced before my eyes.

  ‘Do not weaken,’ said the Master of Shadows, ‘or the other may try to seize control from you. Apply what you have learned.’

  What I had learned was threatening to slip from my mind altogether to be replaced by a fog of panic. I made myself breathe as the Hag had taught me. I sharpened my focus, seeing with the clarity of air. I made myself open to change, fluid as water, seeking a way into the mind of every fey being who fought in that hideous spectacle before me. I am too small, too weak, too lacking in wisdom, part of me protested. And the answer came clearly: It is not your own strength you use for this task. It is the strength of Alban itself, deep as the roots of a great oak, fresh and good as a tumbling mountain stream, strong as the west wind, bright as summer sun. It is as old as story. Nothing can stand against it. Nothing.

  And I remembered what the Master of Shadows had said earlier. Know when it is time to stop. The battle was raging without my needing to direct it; Good Folk and humankind stood shoulder to shoulder. In the turmoil I caught glimpses of many familiar friends: there were Tali and Fingal, back to back like twin warriors from some ancient tale, wielding their swords against a well-disciplined group of Enforcers; there was Andra, skewering an attacker with her spear. Hollow appeared to be enjoying himself mightily, picking up king’s men as if they were dolls, wringing their necks and tossing them away over his shoulders. A chorus of screams followed him around the field. And I saw that the army from the north had come to my call. Over there by the wall were the stalwart, golden-haired warriors who were personal guards to the Lord of the North, the brothers on whom I had bestowed the names Constant and Trusty. Close by them were the fighters Tali had befriended during our stay in the Lord’s hall: Scar, Steep, Stack, Grim, Fleabane and many of their kind, wielding their weapons with savage efficiency.

  How long could this go on? The men of the North, of Corriedale, of Glenfalloch and Glenbuie were fighting strongly, assisted by Wolf Troop and, I was certain now, most of Seal Troop; the Good Folk were wreaking havoc wherever they went. But most of the king’s men had stayed loyal to him, and they were expert fighters, trained with the utmost rigour. Their code would see them battle to the end. They would go on, if necessary, until every Enforcer on the field was dead. And the rebel side, kindled into action both by Tali’s stirring speech and by my call, would not give way now that freedom was in sight. This had been a long time coming. The people of Alban could taste a new age, and if it must be paid for in bloody losses, they would pay gladly. Already, the field was strewn with the dead or dying. As they fought, folk stumbled on the bodies of comrade and enemy alike.

  Now Tali was struggling with three Eagle Troop men for possession of a spear; she fought like a wild thing, but they were slowly pushing her back against the barrier, trying to get her off balance. And now here came Andra, sword in hand, slashing with casual expertise as she moved in. Tali wriggled free only to see Andra struck down by a heavy blow to the head; six men in black now surrounded the two rebel fighters. Andra lay limp; one side of her head was all blood. The White Lady had taught me to hear one voice among many, and Tali’s shriek of rage and grief came to me over the great, hideous noise of battle. She charged like a mad bull, throwing herself bodily into one attacker. Before the others could seize her, Constant and Trusty strode up, each of the fey warriors dwarfing the biggest of the king’s men, and with a flick here and a twist there the six Enforcers were accounted for. Tali went down on her knees beside her second-in-command; the Twa stood guard. Even from so far away I could see that Andra was dead. My stomach felt leaden. Who would be next, Fingal, Big Don, Tali herself? Would I see all these good people, all my brave friends, stru
ck down one by one? And where was Flint in that maelstrom of violence? He’d looked barely strong enough to stay on his feet.

  ‘The Thistle!’ yelled Lannan Long-Arm, leading a group of his men against a tight formation of Enforcers. ‘The North!’ A slash of the sword, and a man’s head bounced and rolled on the hard earth. Around the field, sudden fires were breaking out, causing panic. Someone was coaxing flames to burn by magic. A king’s man brandished an iron bar; one of the Good Folk laid hands on the weapon and used it to batter his opponent over the head. Great winged creatures flew over the field of battle, diving from time to time to pluck a man from the fight, lift him high, then drop him back down into the chaos below.

  ‘Stag Troop!’ Keldec shouted. ‘To arms!’

  The men of Stag Troop stood unmoving, maintaining their guard around the king’s party. Whatever orders they were obeying, they were not Keldec’s. Now the king called out, ‘Galany of Bull Troop! Get your men out here!’

  The men of Bull Troop had stayed on guard outside the annexe. Now they forced their way through the sea of combatants to the front of the seating, where they formed up, facing the ranks of Stag Troop. Galany looked up at Rohan Death-Blade, who was standing right behind Keldec, and gave a little nod.

  ‘The men of Bull Troop no longer serve you, Keldec.’ Galany’s voice was strong and sure. ‘Our loyalty is to the kingdom of Alban, and to our comrades-in-arms. Good men have died on your watch; men whom you have broken for the slightest word out of turn, men you have forced to perform acts that will weigh on them their whole lives. We have seen friend after friend fall; we have laid down comrade after comrade, and remained obedient because those were our orders. Because we had no faith that it could change. Today is the day of change. Today, we are no longer king’s men, but men of Alban.’

  What Keldec might have said in reply, I never knew. No sooner had Galany finished his speech when a look of mild surprise appeared on his face, and a moment later he toppled forward, the shaft of an arrow protruding from his back. Two Enforcers with bows had climbed the wall and were taking shots from a vantage point half-concealed by a section of the annexe roof. A second Bull Troop man fell.

  Rohan Death-Blade moved as quick as an eel. Now his knife was at the king’s throat. ‘Call off your forces, Keldec,’ he said. ‘Or you die now. Do not doubt me.’

  ‘Esten,’ screamed the queen, ‘do something!’

  I saw him stretch out his arms, heard him draw a gasping breath, sensed him preparing himself for the call of his life, the call that would restore him to the king’s favour and bring him the recognition he so desperately craved. And I knew he was no longer a threat. I felt the utter certainty that my call could prevail; that the ancient magic of Alban was the strongest weapon of all.

  Earth, Air, Fire, Water. Endurance, vision, purpose, courage. This time my call had no words, except perhaps Help or It is time. People told me later they saw a white light, or felt a tingling in the air, or heard a sound like a thunderclap. I know that suddenly, from a clear sky, rain began to fall. But after I felt those first drops I fainted, to come to myself with Gormal’s guards bending over me and my head, much to my shock, pillowed on the Master’s bony knee. Now he was not the splendid lord I had seen before, but the frail old man of our first meeting.

  ‘All right, Ellida?’ one of the guards said.

  ‘I will be.’

  ‘Fellow says he’s your grandfather. Came from nowhere.’

  ‘Oh. Yes, that’s right.’ I looked up at the Master of Shadows; he was grinning.

  ‘Sit up, then,’ he said. ‘Slowly does it. You took a risk with that call. Seems it may have paid off.’

  I had always thought that for a Caller to summon a Guardian was wrong, that they were too ancient and powerful to be brought forth in such a way. That such a call should be used only in the last extreme. I had not argued the case with myself today; I had simply done it. And there they were: the Master of Shadows here with me, come of his own accord, and not far away the Lord of the North in his white fur cloak, his noble features sombre as he gazed out over a field now littered with the terrible aftermath of the battle. Beside him stood a strange creature, in shape a lovely woman in a flowing gown, but not of solid flesh, for she was made up of many tiny beings, shifting and glimmering, their small bodies somehow joining together to create her form. The White Lady, made whole again. Close by stood the Hag of the Isles, tall and strong in her cloak of fronded weed, with her hair spilling moon-silver over her shoulders. As I sat up, then stood, leaning on the Master’s arm, she made a pass through the air before her, and the sprinkling of rain became a torrential downpour – not over those of us in this raised area, but precisely on the combatants still hacking and slicing and killing out there on the open ground. So heavy was the fall that it became impossible for them to go on fighting. The ground turned to a quagmire; folk struggled to hold on to their weapons; quite plainly, foe could not see foe through the sheets of rain. The sound drowned out even the cries of the dying.

  As abruptly as it had begun, the rain ceased. A voice rang out: that of the Lord of the North, who stood by the Hag. ‘Let no more blood be shed here!’ he called. ‘Let the killing cease. Lay down your weapons, humankind and Good Folk alike, and let the work of mending begin.’

  ‘May light conquer dark,’ came the voice of the White Lady. ‘May kindness take the place o’ cruelty. May wisdom banish ignorance and fear.’ Many eyes were on her now. Perhaps, in the heat of the battle, folk had not realised the wondrous thing that had taken place here; had not recognised the powerful magic that now enveloped them. But they were starting to see, and now, one after another, folk dropped their swords, their knives, their spears and clubs to the sodden ground. Rebels; Good Folk; Enforcers.

  The battle was not quite won; the losses were not quite at an end. In a spot near the outer gates, a band of king’s men still held out despite the losses, despite the presence of the Guardians, despite everything.

  ‘Men of Hound troop, stand fast!’ Brydian’s shout was hoarse and ragged, a last burst of hopeless defiance. ‘Defend your king! Down with these traitors!’ As for the king himself, Rohan Death-Blade still held him with a knife at the throat, and he could not say a word.

  ‘If you heed that advice you’re nothing but fools, and you deserve the rule of a tyrant!’ roared out the Master of Shadows, startling me so much I nearly fell. ‘Would you fight until every last one of you lies dead on the field? If any chieftain here is still loyal to the king, let him declare his surrender now! See to your fallen! Save your loyalty and your sacrifice for a leader who merits it.’ He reached a fist above his head, then opened it. A towering jet of flame shot out, casting a red-gold glow over the sodden ground, the weary fighters, the shocked onlookers.

  ‘How dare you challenge the king –’ began the queen, then fell silent. The Lord of the North had motioned toward his people, and the giant guards Constant and Trusty marched up the steps to relieve Rohan of his charge. Scar apprehended a spluttering Brydian, and the warrior named Fleabane had the other counsellor, Gethan, in his grip. And here was Sage, apparently quite unharmed, come from nowhere to stand with staff in hand beside Esten, who was slumped motionless in his seat, eyes closed.

  Erevan of Scourie, who had been seated near Keldec, rose to his feet. ‘Scourie surrenders!’ he called to his men on the field. ‘The king no longer has our allegiance. Men, lay down your weapons!’

  A warrior stepped out from the throng down there, his tunic barely recognisable as green under the crimson stains. He faced the Guardians and bowed his head. ‘Wedderburn surrenders,’ he said, his exhaustion plain in his voice. ‘Our chieftain, Keenan, fell in this battle. We go forward under the thistle.’

  The fey combatants had backed off as soon as the Hag spoke; a few of them were helping the wounded, but most had gathered in groups, Northies, Southies, Westies, their eyes fixed in wonder on the Guardians. O
ver by the outer gates, Lannan Long-Arm was rapping out orders, and there was Abhan of Horse Troop beside him, and to my immense relief the last group of Enforcers laid aside their arms. Some of the Shadowfell rebels were shepherding ordinary folk out through the gates; men and women carried children across ground stained red, shielding the little ones’ eyes as they passed. Over by the barrier, Tali had risen to her feet; Hollow cleared a way so she could walk forward. As she passed, a sombre figure in her stained clothing, the whole place fell quiet.

  ‘Come,’ said my self-styled grandfather. He led me down the steps, and along to a spot between the White Lady and the Hag. By the time we reached them, the Master had changed again, and was in his lordly form.

  I searched the mass of people on the field for Flint. Where was he? Somewhere out there lying under a heap of bodies? In a corner, in the shadows, kicked aside because he was in the way?

  Tali had come to the front of the crowd, alongside the loyal chieftains, and there was Fingal, supporting a wounded Brasal, and there was no missing the imposing form of Hollow, but I could not see my man anywhere. Perhaps he had fallen at the first charge, trampled underfoot. He’d had no weapons. He had never intended to fight. Most likely he had thought he deserved to die.

  All over the field now, comrade stooped to tend to wounded comrade, friend closed the staring eyes of fallen friend. But most of the fighters simply stood in place, shocked into silence by the immensity of what had happened: the rebellion, the battle, the losses, the Good Folk, the sudden overwhelming appearance of the Guardians. Many people here would never have seen one of the Good Folk before; many might have hardly believed they existed outside the old tales. And now the king was overthrown, and everything was turned upside down. The yard of Summerfort was littered with the dead and dying. And magic was everywhere.