Battle for Elt: The Taking of the Wizard Bearer

by A. C. Hutchinson

  Christian couldn't imagine sleeping for such a length of time. But sleep was something he'd not had much of over the past few months. Mr Gains would often wake him early, when sunrise was just a thought on the horizon, and then make him work long into the night. When he did sleep, it was usually interrupted by violence, whether it a beat to the head or the sound of Mrs Gains receiving the same, or worse. He thanked the Lord it was all over, but knew he would carry the memory of it with him for as long as he lived.

  “If you have children, will they be wizards too?” Christian asked.

  Gladden laughed again. “A wizard cannot have children, my boy. We are . . .” He scratched at his short, grey beard. “We don't have seeds to give.” Christian was unsure of what that meant. “Besides, we are prohibited from taking a wife.”

  “Why?” Christian thought every man took a wife eventually.

  “It's the rules. We swear to them when we reach the age of fourteen.”

  Christian had many more questions to ask about wizards, but Stetland interrupted.

  “Let's get moving,” the Dark Rider shouted.

  Sir John and Marcus were already in their saddles.

  “Have we decided on the direction?” Gladden said, standing while supporting himself on his staff like an old man.

  “We've decided on a direction,” Marcus said. “Whether it's the right direction, we know not.”

  Christian was soon back in the saddle with his arms wrapped around Stetland's waist. The Dark Rider explained how it was all to do with the sun. “The sun is high and to the north,” Stetland said. “So we need to be travelling away from it.” The trouble was, the evergreens were so think and tightly packed that they blocked the sun from sight. “We’ve been going around in circles.” Most of the time they travelled in a dusk-like gloom, despite it being midday. But when they arrived at a part of the wood populated by deciduous trees, the sun shone through.

  They had journeyed south for perhaps half an hour to the gentle patter of snow slipping off branches onto the forest floor, when Stetland drew up his horse.

  “Something's not right,” the Dark Rider said.

  “Tell me it's not dead soldiers,” Sir John said.

  “It's the sun, isn't it?” Marcus said. “It's moving. It's not always at our back.”

  Christian looked around. They were back in a thick wood of evergreens where the sun's rays struggled to penetrate the branches casting only speckled light on the snow-covered ground.

  “That's right,” Stetland said to Marcus. “Every time we come out of a thick patch of evergreens the sun has moved. Or should I say, we've moved, somehow.”

  “It's like we're going round in circles . . .” Gladden said.

  “Yes.”

  While Stetland pondered their dilemma, Christian felt pressure in his bladder.

  “I need to pee,” he said and then descended from the horse.

  “Don't go far,” Stetland warned. “Something's amiss here. Just go behind that tree, no further.”

  Stetland, Sir John, Marcus and Gladden continued to talk as Christian stood behind a tree relieving his swollen bladder. Steam rose from his urine as it trickled down the bark. When he finished he set off back towards Stetland and the others, but a noise made him turn back to the tree. Beyond it, a bush swayed as if a panicked rodent had disappeared into its depths. Christian turned away again, but then stopped. That bush, he thought. It wasn't there before I took a pee.

  He turned around again and inspected the bush. It was in-leaf too. It might be one of those evergreen types. There was something inside it, though, he noticed, shaking the leaves. Christian walked to it on tiptoes, determined not to spook whatever hid within it. I want to see what it is, he thought.

  He parted the bush's short branches and peered inside. To his disappointment there was nothing there. How odd, he thought. But when he looked beyond the branches he'd parted, his eyes rested upon something that intrigued him further: a cottage. Quite out of place. It was small and quaint, with stone walls, and a thatched roof from which a chimney rose, billowing smoke. Around the house was a neat wooden fence. The garden within was packed with flowers blooming with more colours than Christian knew. Odd, he thought. Flowers in bloom during the winter. In fact, there was no snow within the garden at all, he saw. And is that a bee hovering from flower to flower?

  He turned to go and tell Stetland about the strange sight when a woman's voice made him halt: “Are you lost, child?”

  He knew before he turned that she would be beautiful, for her voice was like that of an angel. And he wasn't disappointed. She's like a goddess. He could feel his cheeks burning red. The woman's hair was impossibly blonde, almost white. A large, pink daisy was tucked behind her left ear, holding the hair away from her face. Her skin was fair and her eyes dark. They are black and take up all of her eyes. He'd seen them before, he remembered. Her cheek bones were sharp, her face the most beautiful thing he had ever looked upon. She wore a full-length immaculately white dress; Christian thought this made her look even more angelic.

  “Has the cat got your tongue?” she said, stepping closer to him.

  He would have said that her beauty had stolen his voice, if he could have talked.

  As she stepped towards him, he noticed that her dress was cut on the left side, exposing one of her slender legs all the way to her waist. So much skin on show, he thought. She was naked beneath, he presumed.

  “Are you with friends?” She looked around.

  Christian finally found his voice. “My friends are back there.” He hooked his thumb over his shoulder.

  “Where?” the woman said, peering beyond him.

  Christian turned. A moment ago he was able to see them, but now they were gone. In fact, the forest looked entirely different than it did before.

  “They were here just a moment ago,” he said.

  “Never mind,” the woman said. She had stepped even closer. Close enough to place a hand on his shoulder. She wore a ring with a large red ruby set upon it. “You can come inside and wait for them.” She ushered him towards the cottage. “I can make you a drink of tea. Do you like tea?”

  Christian had never had such a drink.

  “What's tea?”

  “You'll see. I have a cat too. Do you like cats, Christian?”

  “How do you know my name?”

  He stopped then, wanting his friends more than the beautiful woman in the white dress.

  “You told me.”

  “No I didn't.” I'm sure I didn't.

  “Oh, but you did.” They were walking again. Christian found he couldn't help but go with her. “You have a gift, Christian. You can talk with me in your head.”

  “But I haven't been doing that, either.”

  “You have, you just didn't realise. We've been having another conversation all this time. I know all about your mother and father and Tarquin and Patricia Gains, and your new friend, the Dark Rider.” Her black eyes seemed to shine like a polished stone as she said Stetland's other name. But not in a good way, Christian thought.

  They reached the gate. It opened of its own accord and closed again behind them. Walking down the path, they brushed past tall flowers causing disturbed bees to take flight. I knew I'd seen bees, he thought. It's warmer here too, like a summer's day.

  The smell of pollen was strong, causing his nose to twitch.

  “I want to go back,” Christian pleaded.

  “No need to worry. You can wait for your friends inside, like I said. I'll make you a drink of tea and we can sit together.”

  Her voice was so soothing, he found. He felt sleepy just listening to it.

  The front door to the cottage opened, seemingly on its own, just like the gate had done. Christian felt as if he was floating as they walked through the doorway. Inside, the cottage was one room. It was dark and gloomy too. The windows, one at the front of the cottage and two at the back, were small and dirty. A few narrow slits of light managed to penetrate the grime, illuminating
the black cauldron in the centre of the room.

  “What's that?” Christian said, pointing.

  “No need to worry about that,” the woman said. The door slammed behind them. Christian jumped at the noise. “Would you like that drink of tea?”

  “I . . . I would like my friends.”

  His head felt heavy, his thoughts hard to reach, his words difficult to articulate.

  A cup was thrust into his hands. It was warm, but not hot.

  “Drink,” the woman demanded.

  She helped him lift it to his mouth. He took a sip and winced at the taste. It's nasty, he thought. It tastes like ash and water and mud.

  “Drink some more,” the woman said in her soothing voice.

  Then, the room spun. Around and around it went, shapes blurring, colours merging.

  Christian didn't know how long he'd been asleep, it could have been minutes, it could have been hours. He had dreamed lucidly. Tarquin Gains had been chasing him through a flower-rich garden, but instead of a belt in his hand he was holding a snake. It hissed and stuck out its forked tongue. Christian ran, but in his haste he fell down a hole in the ground. The hole didn't seem to have a bottom. He fell and fell, kicking and screaming. Eventually, something caught him. It was a giant, and he was held fast in its large hand. The over-sized man – ugly, with a hairy wart on his flat nose – opened his mouth and breathed on Christian. Bad breath, Christian thought. It smells of death. And he’s going to eat me. But then the giant sneezed. Christian, caught in a gust of wind so strong it made his cheeks ripple, was thrown from the giant's grasp. He was flying through the air once again, into inky blackness, turning head over feet, again and again. Then, he was back in the village of Staddlethorpe, where he once lived. His mother was being taken by a Savage on horseback. She was flung over the horses’ hind, her legs kicking. The Savage turned to Christian and grinned, showing blackened teeth. He had a red jewel about his neck and his left eye was missing. Then Christian awoke.

  He was lying on a stone floor. As his vision focused, he could see bars. I'm in a cell, he thought. He pushed himself to a sitting position. His head immediately rang with pain. He remembered how Tarquin Gains, after a long night of drinking, used to rub his ugly head and complain. Usually before slapping me or his wife across the face. Christian wondered if this was how his old master used to feel.

  He then remembered the dream he'd woken from. He didn't need reminded of the Savage who had taken his mother, for the face of that man continued to haunt him: the bearded face; the black, empty eye socket, from out of which he expected insects to scurry; and the red jewel gleaming at his throat.

  With his sight restored, Christian looked around the room and suddenly remembered where he was. The woman, Christian thought. I'm in the cottage with the woman. But where is she?

  Christian inspected the cell he was in, or what he initially thought was a cell. He discovered that it was more like a cage and it was positioned in a gloomy corner, opposite the door through which he'd entered the cottage.

  He glanced into the corner opposite and got a fright. Two almond-shaped, yellow eyes were looking back at him – and they were growing ever larger. At least I'm in a cage, he thought. Whatever it is, it cannot get me in here. He hoped that were true. Nevertheless, he pushed himself to the back of the cage, his bottom sliding across the floor as he scurried on hands and feet like a crab.

  As the eyes drew nearer, dull light from the grimy windows above revealed what the creature was. A cat. Its fur was black and rich, explaining why he'd seen only eyes peering at him from out of the darkness. The feline was large, too; as big as any wild dog he'd ever seen. It continued to creep towards him. On reaching the bars it hissed, revealing immaculately white, pointed teeth. A mouth like that could probably give quite a bite, Christian thought. Probably worse than that of a dog.

  As he was pondering whether the animal would be able to squeeze its large body through the bars (he'd seen mice do such things), a voice made the cat's head turn.

  “Gimbles!” the woman snapped. Christian also turned his head in the direction of the voice. The woman who had brought him here was standing in the open doorway, a gentle breeze ruffling her blonde hair. “Naughty kitten. Leave that poor boy alone.” She strode towards the cat, exposing an obscene amount of leg with each step. Despite the cat's size and obvious weight, she picked it up with apparent ease and threw it back into a shadowy corner. “The boy is mine.”

  She turned and fixed her gaze on Christian. He was glad he was sitting in the far corner of the cage, away from her grasp.

  “You should take off your clothes,” she said.

  Christian was horrified. What is she going to do to me? He recalled memories of what Tarquin Gains did to his wife – the violence, the screams – and felt sick.

  “Why?” Christian said. His voice was unsteady and unusually high-pitched.

  “Because I can't cook you in clothes, now, can I?”

  She's going to eat me. She's going to put me in that cauldron right there and boil me until my skin is as white as her dress. Then she'll eat me. Maybe she'll save a bit of me for Gimbles, too.

  “Why would you want to eat me?” Tears were near, he realised. He could feel them welling, ready to burst forth down his cheeks.

  The woman grasped the cage's bars. Her fingers were long and slender. Just like her exposed leg. “Did your parents never tell you about witches and what they do?” Witches? “I must admit, I prefer younger children, with all their youthful energy, but you'll do. Besides, you've got a bit of magic in that head of yours, which I'm hoping will be very nourishing.”

  She's Emily Grouse, of course. Her black eyes should have given it away. How could I have not realised? He answered his own question: Because she's beautiful and she had me in some sort of trance, or a spell, perhaps.

  “Are you Emily Grouse?”

  She smiled, displaying perfect white teeth. Christian had never seen teeth so white. She eats babies and children, that's how she stays so young and beautiful.

  “Of course I am. But you knew that already, didn't you, Christian? There was no need for you to ask.”

  “My friends will come looking for me,” he said. He wasn't sure that they would, but he thought maybe he could make her believe that they might.

  Emily Grouse scoffed. “Your friends are a long way away, Christian. They'll never find you here. Not even the Dark Rider can save you now.”

  “We saw your living dead. They still roam Killingwoldgraves.”

  “Ah, yes,” she said, with an air of wistfulness. “They call it the Land of the Dead now, I hear. I left a great a legacy, didn't I?”

  “But, you're not dead. You said you'd left a legacy, but you're not dead.”

  She pushed her face between the bars. “That was two hundred years ago, Christian. I keep myself young, that's true, but being alive for that length of time would surely send a person mad.”

  “But you're here.” Christian was confused. This is weirder than my lucid dream.

  “Am I in your time, Christian, or are you in mine? Or are we both far away in a completely different time and place altogether?”

  “I want my friends.”

  “I told you, they're not here. Now, take off your clothes.”

  She turned away from him, but not because she didn't want to see him undress, he realised, but because she was slotting logs into the space beneath the cauldron.

  He decided he wouldn't remove his clothes. No way. If she wants me to take them off, then she'll have to come in here and do it herself. He thought that he might be able to overpower her somehow and escape. It wasn't a very good plan, but it was all he had.

  Emily turned then, as if she had read his mind. Her black eyes stared at him like two bottomless holes. Like the one I was falling down in my dream, he thought. Or maybe like the left eye of the Savage who took my mother.

  “You haven't taken off your clothes.” Her voice was tinged with annoyance. “It looks like I will
have to do it for you.”

  She began to walk towards the cage. Christian gripped the bars at his back and prepared to launch himself at her.

  CHAPTER 19

  Quiggly scuttled along the snow-covered path at the edge of the woods, occasionally picking up fallen pinecones to sniff; on deciding they were not food, he would fling them over his shoulder in disgust. Fabian followed his pet squaggle as the trees closed in on both sides of the path. Their tall branches blocked the winter sunshine turning the air even cooler. The old wizard shivered.

  Quiggly flung another pinecone over his shoulder. Fabian was about to comment on how stupid the squaggle was for never learning, when he heard voices. He grabbed Quiggly by one of his flailing arms and fell to his knees behind a tree. Putting a finger to his lips, he told the squaggle to be quiet. When he was confident they hadn't been heard, he peeped around the tree trunk. He counted four men. They appeared to be searching for something. One of them put his hands to his mouth and shouted: “Christian.”

  Quiggly cooed.

  “Be quiet,” Fabian said to his squaggle. Who are these people? Are they Volk's men? If the woods weren't so gloomy I would be able to see them more clearly.

  Fabian held his position behind the tree. He would not reveal himself until he was forced to.

  The man closest called out again: “Christian.” Fabian thought he looked familiar. I don't believe my eyes . . .

  Fabian stepped from behind the tree. The man closest unsheathed his sword, but then quickly put it away again and began to smile.

  “Stetland Rouger,” Fabian said. “It's been too long.”

  “Too long indeed, old man,” Stetland said.

  Fabian walked to Stetland and embraced him.

  Then he heard another voice: “Great-Uncle?”

  Behind Stetland, stood Fabian's great-nephew Gladden.

  “My boy,” Fabian said. “You've grown.” The young wizard was at least a foot taller than he was the last time Fabian had seen him. They clacked staffs and then hugged.

  “And Quiggly.” The squaggle scurried up Gladden’s leg.