Stetland turned his horse and charged in the direction in which he hoped to find Ellerker Rise. Fingers grabbed at him from left and right. Occasionally, walking corpses stepped out in front of his charging horse, but Stetland steered his mount around them. His horse whinnied and bucked, but he urged it onwards. He was beginning to think he was lost and that his horse would tire, leaving him and the others stranded deep in Killingwoldgraves, but like angels, the evergreen pines of Ellerker Rise appeared through the mist. One last abomination, with tendrils of flesh hanging from its god-awful face, made a grab for Stetland's leg as his horse jumped the slight rise into the pines beyond. Once in the forest proper, the mist dispersed. He pulled up his horse and turned, hoping to see the others following. Please tell me they are following. For one heart-stopping moment, the wall of mist that concealed the horrors beyond stood still and empty. He was preparing to lift Christian down from the saddle and return to the battlefield to find his friends, when a horse leaped through the mist with Marcus in the saddle, followed swiftly by Gladden, and then Sir John.
“Are we safe?” Marcus said, panting hard as he pulled up his horse.
Stetland looked into the wall of mist, expecting to see the outstretched arms of hideous monsters coming through, but nothing did. After a couple of minutes, Stetland began to relax.
“We're safe,” Stetland said. “We should keep moving, though.”
“Which way?” Gladden said.
Stetland looked around. The evergreen trees were dusted with white, the forest floor deep in snow, immaculate but for a few small footprints left by foraging woodland creatures. None of it looked familiar to him, but he knew they could use the sun to find their way.
They set off at a trot, headed south, hoping to join the Great Road somewhere along its great length. An hour passed, during which their horses had galloped, cutting between tree after tree, but the forest had become a maze, Stetland realised. We should have reached the road by now. Or at least arrived at somewhere that looks familiar. They carried on. Occasionally Stetland looked to the sun hanging lazily in the winter sky; it was where it should be, to his shoulder, but the feeling that they were lost persisted. They passed a fallen tree, this one had a knot in its bark that resembled a face. Stetland thought it looked as if it were mocking them. Twenty minutes later, still headed south with the sun to his left shoulder, he saw the same fallen tree with the same mocking face staring back. Lost. And going round in circles. But with the sun still to our left, how can that be?
CHAPTER 13
The old wizard Fabian was standing outside a little cottage in the small village of Weedley when the message arrived. It was dawn and a brisk wind blew from the east, clawing at Fabian's cloak with icy fingers.
“It arrived this morning by bird,” the boy said. “Boss said it was lucky to get here, what with the weather and all.”
Fabian took the piece of paper from the boy and read it.
“You go along now, my boy,” Fabian said. “You'll catch your death out here.” He reached into his pocket and found, among the jumble of other things, a coin. He placed it in the boy's palm.
“Thanks.” The boy turned and ran, kicking up snow as he went.
Fabian screwed up the piece of paper and dropped it into the same pocket he'd taken the coin from. At his feet, his pet squaggle, a monkey-like creature people often called a Wizard's Apprentice, cooed like a babe.
“Yes, Quiggly,” Fabian said to the creature. “It's bad news.”
Fabian trudged back to the wooden cottage – built inside the hollowed-out trunks of ten enormous trees growing together like people in a loving huddle. Quiggly scurried at his side, leaving prints in the snow that looked like those left by a bird's feet.
Inside the cottage, Hugo Peas was sitting at the circular kitchen table. He was a small man – as most folk from Weedley, who were often called tree folk, were – with a thick mat of greying hair atop his head. Hugo raised his equally grey eyebrows as Fabian strode into the room with purpose.
“Whatever is the matter, Fabian?” Hugo said with concern in his voice.
“Trouble.”
Quiggly leaped with his spindly legs, gripped the top of a wooden chair, and swung himself onto the table top. He chatted in some animal-like language that made sense only to Fabian.
“What's he saying?” Hugo said, pointing to the squaggle.
“He's worried, as am I. You see, I've just received a message.”
Hugo's wife, Poppy Peas, was standing over a small fire on which a pot of porridge simmered. She was a rotund woman with a mop of curly grey hair. Her face was the epitome of kindness, but as she turned to look at Fabian, a cloud of concern passed over it.
“Well, go on,” Hugo urged.
“I would have got the message sooner, but King Bahlinger had sent the bird to my home in the north, where he quite rightly presumed I would be. Luckily, someone had the foresight to send it on here.”
“Fabian. I don't wish to sound rude, but what in God's name does the message say?”
Fabian didn't want to repeat the words. They had sent a cold shiver down his spine. “The wizard bearer Cassandra Delamare – she's been taken.”
Poppy put a hand to her heart. “Oh, my.”
“Taken how?” Hugo said. “And where?”
“They suspect Volk's men. So Wyke will be the destination. I must leave, at once. I am to intercept them on the Great Road. That's the plan, anyway.”
“Just you?” Hugo said, with fresh concern in his voice.
“No. They've hatched some sort of plan. Stetland Rouger, my great-nephew Gladden, a knight called Sir John Bretel, and a couple of Kingstown soldiers, are tracking them. Eaglen is making his way up from the south, too.”
“Let me make you some breakfast first,” Poppy Peas said. “It's so cold out there. You'll need some food in your belly if you're to make it through the day.” Fabian was hungry. Since waking an hour ago his stomach had been making the same noises as an emptying bath tub.
“And we need to talk, albeit briefly, about our concerns,” Hugo said. “That's why you're here, after all, to hear us. And with you arriving so late last night . . .”
On arriving, Fabian had been too exhausted to discuss anything. The snow had been so thick on his journey it had been like walking through water.
Fabian thought Hugo looked like a lost child. With a heavy sigh, Fabian removed his grey wizard's hat and rested it on the table. He pulled out a wooden chair and sat on it.
“I guess it makes sense,” he said. “Cassandra's captors will have rested at High Hunsley last night, I suspect. With the snow so deep it'll be late afternoon before they reach the Great Road south of here.”
“That settles it, then,” Poppy said. She smiled and then turned away to continue stirring the porridge, which was bubbling happily. Fabian knew from experience that Poppy was far from a good cook, but food was food. And it's made with love, he thought.
“Now what of these concerns.”
Quiggly cooed.
“Well,” Hugo said, sitting forward and resting his folded arms on the table top. “There have been all sorts of people around here of late.”
“—Very strange people,” Poppy interjected.
“Weedley is usually such a quiet place, as well you know.”
“—Volk's men, that's what we think.”
“There's a clearing, just north of here, not far. You can walk there in ten minutes.”
“—Lovely place it is. We take food there sometimes and sit and watch the birds while we eat.”
“There's an old road nearby. It's not frequented often. It goes from The Warrens in the west to Weighton in the east.”
“—Smugglers used to use it back in the day. At least that's what my father used to say. It's off the beaten track, you see, less chance of being seen than if you use the Great Road.”
“But just last week we saw a convoy of horses pulling wains. Each wain was full of women and children.”
&n
bsp; Of this, Fabian was interested. “Do you think they were fleeing the war? Refugees, maybe?” he said.
Hugo and Poppy exchanged glances, then Hugo shook his head. “Men with swords were escorting them. They didn't look like those sworn to Kingstown. They were Volk's men, I'm certain of it. And most of the women were crying and hugging their children like they never wanted to let them go.”
“Awful it was,” Poppy said, lifting the pot from the fire.
Fabian suspected that Hugo was right. He knew that women and children were being taken to Wyke to be used as slaves. Over the past few weeks he had come across burned villages with no sign of the women and children who once lived there, only the bloodied bodies of slain men.
“I want you two to be extra careful.” The old wizard pointed at them both in turn. “These are dangerous times. If you see anyone you don't recognise then come home quickly and lock the door.”
“We don't want the war here,” Hugo said. “We are gentle folk.”
Poppy dunked a ladle into the pot. When she lifted it out, porridge dripped from its sides. She filled three bowls and brought them to the table.
“This should sort you out for the day,” she said, placing a bowl in front of Fabian.
The old wizard dug a spoon into the porridge. When he let go, the spoon stayed upright. Across the table, Hugo sniggered.
“Thank you, Poppy,” Fabian said. “It looks lovely. Would you perchance have any honey?” He knew from bitter experience that Poppy's porridge was overly salty; he hoped the sweet honey would counter that.
“Of course I have, Fabian.” She opened a cupboard high up on the wall (high to Poppy, anyway) and reached inside. “Fresh from a hive of Weedley bees.” She placed the jar on the table. Quiggly looked at it with longing.
“This is not for you, Quiggly,” Fabian said. “You know full well it would give you gut ache.”
“I'll get him some nuts,” Poppy said, opening another cupboard, this one under the worktop.
“Once we've rescued Cassandra,” Fabian said, while pouring gloopy drips of honey into his porridge, “I'll return here, if it will make you feel safer. Besides, I'd like to see one of these convoys myself.”
“We need Kingstown soldiers here, too, to keep guard. It's been months since we've seen any of our lord's men.”
“There's a big war to fight, Hugo. And the lord's men are few.”
Poppy scattered a handful of nuts on the table top. Quiggly began eating them one by one, like a monkey picking fleas from another's back.
“I know,” Hugo said. “I guess we are of little benefit to Kingstown. They'd rather save bigger towns like Weighton. And The Warrens, of course, with all its brothels – the young soldiers can't keep away from that place.”
Fabian lifted a spoon full of porridge to his mouth. Hugo sniggered. Poppy watched with an expression of expectancy. As soon as Fabian put the spoon in his mouth, salt attacked his taste buds. So much for the honey. He slopped the porridge around his mouth a few times, discovering that his saliva had all but disappeared, and then forced a swallow.
“Lovely porridge, Poppy,” Fabian said, stifling a grimace.
“Thank you, Fabian,” Poppy said, beaming.
“Do you want some more, Fabian?” Hugo said, with mirth in his eyes. “There's plenty in the pot.”
“No, no,” Fabian said, holding up his hands. “That's quite all right. If I eat too much I'll get sluggish.”
Quiggly cooed as if to call the wizard a liar.
There was no more talk of Volk or the slaves after that. They talked instead about memories of summer days and happier times, when Volk had been just a whisper on the wind.
“Remember that time when you fell from the roof, Fabian?” Hugo said. He laughed so hard that he had to push his chair back from the table so that he could double over.
“I remember,” Poppy said, laughing too. “You were trying to fix a hole. Manual work never was your thing, Fabian.”
“As I recall,” Fabian said, indignantly, “once I'd fixed the hole it remained watertight until the summer.”
“Yes,” Hugo said, “shame it was the day before summer when you fixed it.”
Hugo laughed again, Poppy too. Fabian couldn't help but join in. Laughter, he found, was as infections as a common cold.
Once his bowl of porridge was empty, Fabian stood and put on his hat.
“Must you go so soon, old wizard?” Hugo said. “I've built a fire. I was going to light it. We could talk about the old times some more.”
“I'm afraid I have to go. There's a long road ahead.”
“Do take care, Fabian,” Poppy said.
She stood and tickled Quiggly behind his right ear. The squaggle cooed happily and tilted his head.
“You know me,” Fabian said. “I'm always careful.”
“Except when you're fixing roofs,” Hugo said. This brought about fresh bouts of laughter.
Despite the sun being a jewel in the blue sky, it was cold outside. As Fabian made his farewells a fresh wind blew, prompting him to pull up his robe and tuck it under his chin beneath his long, white beard.
“I almost forget,” Poppy said. “I made you some bread for the journey.” She handed him a fist-sized object wrapped in paper. From its weight, Fabian might have thought it a rock. Hugo sniggered again.
“Thank you, Poppy,” Fabian said, placing the wrapped bread in his pocket. It weighted one side of his robe.
Hugo and Poppy remained in the open doorway as the old wizard walked down the garden path. At the gate, he turned and waved. As they returned the gesture, Fabian felt a deep worry for his dear friends. He wished he didn't have to go. These are dangerous times indeed, he thought. And the folk of Weedley are more vulnerable than most. He told himself he would return in two days, once the business with the wizard bearer was concluded. This helped to placate his worry, but not completely.
Time for some magic, Fabian thought. He tapped his staff on the soft snow, twice. Behind Hugo and Poppy, the gloom of the kitchen had given way to flickering light. The couple turned to look into their house. Fabian had lit the fire Hugo had built.
“Thanks, Fabian,” Hugo shouted.
Fabian raised his staff to them and then turned to face the path out of Weedley.
“There's a long road ahead, Quiggly.”
The creature cooed and then scurried on ahead, leaving footprints in the fresh snow.
In was nearly noon by the time Fabian reached the bridge over the River Wauldby. Wind howled through bare branches, the river babbled, and somewhere a robin sang in merriment, but otherwise it was quiet. The old wizard stopped and observed the bridge: a stone, hump-backed structure spanning the ten-foot wide river.
“Where is he?” the old wizard said to Quiggly.
Fabian continued down the path towards the river, stopping short of placing his booted foot on the stone bridge.
“Well?” Fabian said, loudly.
Quiggly cooed and looked up at Fabian with his small, black eyes.
“I know, Quiggly, he's the worst bridge troll I've ever had the misfortune to meet.”
Fabian pushed the bottom of his staff into the layer of snow at the foot of the bridge causing a crack of thunder, which echoed off the trees and made the ground shake. From below the bridge came a moan.
“Come on, come out,” Fabian said, impatiently. He could have crossed the bridge without waking the troll, he knew, but he was a staunch traditionalist and bridge trolls had guarded river crossings like this since the time of The Ancients.
Fabian lent on his staff and waited. From beneath the bridge emerged the large, misshapen head of a troll.
“Who's there?” came its slow, deep voice.
“Only the great wizard Fabian.”
“Oh,” the troll said. “Give me a moment.”
“I could have been across the bridge by now and halfway to the Great Road.”
The troll, a tall creature, naked but for a sparse covering of wiry, brown hair,
sploshed through the water, breaking the ice at its edges, and then climbed the bank. His male appendage swung between his legs like a man swaying in a noose.
“Er,” the troll put a large finger on his chin and appeared to think. Then, he raised his finger in the air, as if to say: I remember. “Silver. You cannot pass unless you give me silver.”
“You really are the worst troll this side of hell, Mollock.”
Mollock the troll leaned into Fabian's face – he had to stoop as he was at least a foot and a half taller than the wizard. “Give me silver.”
The troll's breath smelled bad, like rotting cabbage crossed with a battlefield privy. Fabian turned his head away.
“If you stop breathing on me you can have anything you desire.” The troll stood straight. “Let me see what I have in my pocket.”
Fabian plunged his hand into his robe and found the bread Poppy had made. Dismissing that, he delved further, searching for the telling shape of a coin, but found only a stone and the crumpled piece of paper the messenger boy had given him. He lifted out the stone to inspect it. It was white, with two perfectly circular holes through it. My witch stone, he thought. He remembered finding it some months back on the rocky shoreline beyond the northern mountains.
“How embarrassing,” Fabian said. “This is all I've got.”
He wished now that he'd crept over the bridge instead of waking the stupid creature that sulked in front of him.
“Then I'll have to eat you,” Mollock the troll said, loudly.
Quiggly cooed.
“If you eat me,” Fabian said, pointing his staff at the creature, “I'll give you the worst stomach ache you've ever had the misfortune to suffer.”
Mollock scowled and then twitched his large nose, which was not unlike that of a pig's snout. To Fabian, the troll looked like a boar having caught the scent of a truffle. Mollock leaned forward and began to sniff at Fabian's robe.
“What are you doing?” Fabian said. Snot glistened on the troll's nose. “I don't want slime on my robe, thank you very much. Get away.” Fabian flapped his hands at the creature.
Battle for Elt: The Taking of the Wizard Bearer Page 12
