Master of the Books

by James Moloney

  As he passed the bed of his captors, he saw Arabella snuggled between them, each with a protective arm over her. It was hopeless, he knew. Witches were notorious for their trickery and this one would soon find a way to get the little girl alone.

  Fergus went out into the cold morning where he took his first breath of freedom, but with the picture of Arabella still in his mind, it brought him no joy.

  He was filing through the last of Gadfly’s chain when he saw the longbow hanging from a nail on one side of her stall. Gadfly seemed to know what he was up to as soon as he reached for it.

  ‘I can’t just run off,’ Fergus told her. ‘Not yet. I like the little girl. She’s like a sis— Well, it doesn’t seem right.’

  He had already removed the leather pouch from his pocket, ready to slip it over the horse’s eager head. Now he put it away again, bringing the sound of resignation from Gadfly, more a sigh than a whinny. She watched as he took down the quiver of arrows that was hooked beside the bow.

  ‘Wait for me. I won’t be long. At least, I hope I won’t.’

  CHAPTER 6

  Tilwith and the Giant

  THE TREES DRIPPED WITH the heavy morning dew and if Fergus hadn’t already been shaking with the memory of his last visit to this forest, his damp and chilly clothing would have made sure of it. He didn’t need Gadfly this time to sense the sinister mood that lingered among the trees.

  The sun was angling needles of light into the gloom by the time he found the witch’s home. Stig had given her a name, Tilwith, and as Fergus watched from behind a tree, she emerged from the mouth of a cave to hang out an enormous tunic like any other wife with a husband to care for. But look at the size of that tunic!

  He had come to kill Tilwith, not watch while she did her chores. She was fifty paces away, leaving him a clear shot through the trees. He nocked an arrow and pulled back the string. How much elevation? Too much and it would sail over her head; too little and the arrow would fall short. If only this had been his single thought, but Tilwith was too real, too much a simple woman to his eye, picked out by a beam of morning sunlight that illuminated the killing zone between her shoulders.

  Steel your heart, he demanded of himself. This witch killed Stig’s little son. He let his instinct decide the elevation, forced his body to stop its shaking so as not to disturb his aim. Release!

  The arrow sped through the damp forest air, travelling almost too fast to see. Yet not too fast for the witch. No sooner had Fergus sent death on its way than she spun around and, in a movement that could only be called magic, caught the arrow in her bare hand only an inch from her chest.

  Fergus saw instantly that he had failed. Turn, run, his mind shouted at him, but his legs wouldn’t move, nor his body or arms. His muscles simply wouldn’t obey his command, leaving him frozen and staring at the witch, who was already advancing towards him through the trees.

  ‘You hesitated, didn’t you, my young assassin. That’s what gave you away. The evil of an arrow in the back wouldn’t have alerted me, but that conscience of yours was like a flock of geese honking in my ears. Well, well, you’re even younger than I thought, no more than a boy. The villagers really have lost their nerve if they send one so young to do what they can’t do themselves. All the better, for you’ll be nice and tender when I serve you up to my master. What do you say to that, eh? Come on, your mouth still works. I left it free to hear you beg.’

  Fergus had heard many tales of witches and in all of them the women were ugly crones with wizened faces marred by liver spots or a pendulous nose. Yet Tilwith was no older than Stig’s wife, and the only marks on her face were smears of grime and soot from her cooking fire. It was the expression on that face that made it fearsome, not to mention the words that came from her grinning lips.

  ‘I won’t beg,’ he told her firmly. ‘Kill me if you’re going to, but I couldn’t let you take Arabella without a fight.’

  ‘Arabella? Ah, the yearling I heard of only yesterday. You’re her brother then.’

  ‘No, I work for her father, a slave really, but they’re good people.’

  ‘Sentimental fool,’ said Tilwith with a contemptuous laugh.

  ‘I should have killed you when I had the chance,’ seethed Fergus.

  ‘Killing me wouldn’t have saved your little girl. Wouldn’t have changed a thing. It’s the giant you need to kill.’

  ‘Your husband.’

  ‘He’s no husband of mine. I’m a slave, just as you are. The giant has me in his thrall and it’s only magic that keeps me here; another’s magic more powerful than my own.’

  ‘The giant is a sorcerer too?’

  ‘No, boy, what a stupid idea. He’s nothing but a mountain of muscle, but he did favours for a sorcerer named Ismar and in return the wizard made me the big brute’s servant. I must live here in this dank forest, do his bidding and never raise my hand against him.’

  Tilwith examined the arrow that had almost killed her. Grasping it mid-shaft, she raised her arm ready to plunge the tip into Fergus’s heart. His eyes focused on the deathly tip but he still didn’t plead for his life.

  ‘You’re a brave one, I’ll grant you that.’ The witch lowered her arm and stared thoughtfully at Fergus until an unmistakable cunning burned in her eyes. ‘You’re a decent archer, but arrows won’t kill the giant. Magic has seen to that. What are you like with a sword?’

  ‘Your giant is too strong. Not even Stig can stand against him and he used to be a soldier.’

  ‘Yes, yes, my giant killed a few brave souls from the village and none have dared venture here since, none but you. Answer my question, can you handle a sword?’

  ‘Better than anyone my age.’

  ‘Then you might do, after all.’

  ‘Do what?’ Fergus asked suspiciously, especially now that he’d found he could move again.

  ‘Come with me and bring your courage with you. You may win your freedom yet and mine as well.’

  Tilwith led him to the mouth of the cave. ‘Wait here. If you run, you’ll be dead before you’ve gone ten paces.’

  Fergus wasn’t about to test her warning. She was planning something, and though the mention of courage unnerved him, his spirits lifted. If her fate depended on his, then she had every reason to help him.

  The witch was gone for only a minute and when she re-emerged into the daylight she was carrying a sword. To Fergus’s amazement, she offered him the hilt.

  ‘Don’t get any ideas,’ she said. ‘I’ve placed enchantments on this sword and one of them forbids its use against me.’

  ‘The giant then,’ said Fergus, swallowing hard. The sword felt good in his hand, but all the same he worried she had passed him a death sentence along with it.

  ‘Your tongue is silent, but your eyes are full of questions. Well, listen to me, young assassin.’ She came closer, scouring the surrounding trees for signs of the giant, and even though he was nowhere to be seen she whispered her next words. ‘If my enchantments work as they’re intended, this sword will make for a fair fight. It will render both you and the giant as equals in strength, so the contest comes down to swordsmanship.’

  ‘ If they work?’

  ‘I could hardly test it, could I. Ismar’s magic forbids me from raising my hand against him. But you —’

  Before another word could be said, a crow swooped low overhead, making each of them duck. The bird came to rest on a rock above the cave’s entrance and there began to caw loudly.

  ‘All right, all right, I heard you,’ Tilwith snapped at the crow. Turning back to Fergus, she said tersely, ‘He’s coming. You’d better hide in those trees and don’t let that conscience of yours get you killed. If you get a chance to slice his head off then do it. Oh, and one more thing, don’t tell him about the enchantments I’ve put into your sword.’

  ‘To surprise him, you mean? Get the upper hand.’

  Tilwith tipped back her head and laughed at him, a cold, humourless gesture. ‘You are the innocent one, aren’t you. N
o, it’s not to surprise the big oaf; it’s in case my magic doesn’t work. I don’t want him to know how I plotted against him.’

  Fergus ran off, wondering whether it would be best to keep running, all the way back to the farmer’s house. Even the witch didn’t seem very confident that he would survive this battle.

  He had just taken his place behind a stout tree when the giant stomped into the clearing before the cave. Fergus risked a quick eyeful and barely managed to suppress a gasp. Twice the height of a normal man, Stig had told him, but to Fergus’s eye that morning, the giant looked more like three times the size. His black hair was tied in an enormous pigtail that trailed down his back, and his tunic had been made without sleeves, leaving his enormous arms bare. No wonder Stig and the other villagers couldn’t stand against him.

  ‘My traps were empty again,’ he complained to Tilwith in a voice that rumbled around the clearing like distant thunder. ‘I’m hungry. What about that human child? Have you stolen her away from her parents yet?’

  ‘I have something better for you instead,’ the witch answered with a wink. ‘A silly boy has lost his way in the forest. He’s over there, among those trees. Kill him for me and I’ll have him in the pot before his body goes cold.’

  Fergus’s mouth went dry as he stared down at the sword in his hands. Was there any magic in it at all or was the witch’s story an elaborate trick to give the giant an easy kill? One thing was certain, though. It was too late to run for safety now. He stepped out from behind the tree and let himself be seen.

  A giant smile broke across that giant face. ‘Plenty for me to feed on,’ he growled and, feeling for his belt, he drew a sword that matched his size and took the first step towards his prey.

  Fergus saw the muscles work in those massive arms as the blade rose above the giant’s head. One blow using such strength would be enough. But he wasn’t going to stand still and let the end come without a fight. He had a weapon in his hand and he knew how to use it. The giant was almost upon him now. As the steel flashed down toward his skull, he raised his sword and tightened his grip for the impact.

  Sparks flew as the blades met in a frightening clash of steel. Fergus felt a shudder through his entire body, but the force didn’t fling the sword from his hand and it hadn’t burst through to slice into his flesh either. There must be enchantments in this sword as the witch had promised, and they were strong enough to fend off a blow that would have killed a grown man.

  The giant seemed as astonished as Fergus. He stared at his weapon, frowning in confusion, then raised it again and brought it down with twice the force. The result was no different. The boy still stood his ground with the sword above his head where he had parried the blow.

  Fergus dared breathe again. He kept the sword ready, almost inviting the giant to try a third time, which he did, in exactly the same way, and again the strike was deflected without harm.

  You don’t know how to fight, do you, Fergus thought. Three times in the one place. A true swordsman would hack at me from the side or sweep low at my legs. His confidence grew. A sword was a weapon of attack as well as defence. Would the witch’s enchantments help him if he became the aggressor?

  His stunned opponent was taking his time over the next blow. He still believed he could kill the boy with muscle power alone and that all he needed to do was muster his strength for one enormous strike. As he filled his lungs, ready for one final effort, Fergus saw his chance. Swinging back the witch’s sword, he launched a blow at the giant’s legs.

  The giant saw the danger and parried it away just in time, but in his haste he threw himself off balance and before he could fend away a second attempt, Fergus hacked into a leg as thick as a tree trunk.

  The giant bellowed in agony and swept his blade at Fergus again. But the boy was expecting the clumsy retaliation and batted away the blow with ease. Then, in the blink of an eye, he slashed the other sturdy leg. The giant fell to his knees and then onto an elbow, though his sword arm remained free, making Fergus watch cautiously. One slip, even now, and he could still die in an instant.

  ‘Finish him, finish him,’ screeched Tilwith, prepared to take sides at last.

  Fergus barely heard her. A contest like this took over the whole mind, whether he was winning or losing. The battle wouldn’t be finished until one of them lay dead and he must work out a way to do it. His legs, his arms, every part of him acted as one, obeying his plan. He raised the enchanted sword, aiming at the giant’s head, and saw the long blade move to defend its master.

  Yes, that’s just what I want you to do, thought Fergus. At the last moment, he changed his attack and, instead of a vicious blow to the head, he drove the point of his sword towards the giant’s unguarded chest.

  It was too late for the lumbering giant to respond. The tip of Fergus’s blade sliced through the leather jerkin, into warm flesh and deeper still into the beating heart. The giant groaned and rolled onto his back, Fergus’s sword still buried between his ribs, his own weapon falling loose from a lifeless hand.

  ‘He’s dead, he’s dead,’ Tilwith cried heartlessly as she danced around the body. ‘I knew I’d trick him in the end.’

  You couldn’t have done it without me, thought Fergus, but she could still kill him as well if she wished, so he held his tongue.

  ‘I’m free. Five years as the brute’s slave and now I’m free.’ She stopped dancing long enough to hug herself in delight, then raced into the cave. She returned three minutes later with a drawstring bag in one hand and a book of spells in the other.

  When she saw Fergus staring at her, silent and bewildered, she said, ‘I should kill you too, I suppose, so word never gets back to Ismar.’ She shifted from one leg to the other, weighing up what she would do.

  ‘Well, you’re not the only sentimental fool standing here,’ she said finally, ‘so listen to me. There’s something inside this cave that I kept for myself. I can’t take it with me now, much as I’d like to, so I’ll leave you alive to find it and take it back where it came from.’

  Her eyes wandered again to the mouth of the cave, as though the excitement of freedom couldn’t quite extinguish a faint ember of regret. Then she turned away and ran along a narrow path. ‘Free!’ she shouted, and as Fergus watched she began to rise up towards the tree tops. Still proclaiming her delight to the birds and the sky above, she was suddenly gone, leaving no sign, not even the echo of her shouting.

  Part of Fergus told him to flee as well, but the giant was dead, there was no doubt about that, and something inside the cave was to be returned. Why would a witch care about what she had stolen, especially if it wasn’t precious enough to take with her? His imagination began to conjure up great chests of gold coins. With unknown days ahead, he could make very good use of gold coins.

  The cave wasn’t much of a home. Fergus began to search the nooks cut into the rock walls and among the witch’s potions, anywhere that looked like a hiding place. Nothing. Soon only the beds remained unsearched. He ripped back the grimy blankets and then dropped to his knees to look under the bed.

  ‘Ow,’ he cried suddenly and fell back. Something had poked him in the eye. After a moment to recover, Fergus took another cautious look, from out of reach this time, and through painful, watering eyes discovered a tiny face peering out at him.

  ‘The witch’s child,’ Fergus whispered. What a callous fiend she was, to run off and leave her own offspring.

  But there was something about that face, the nose and the eyes. Tilwith’s words sounded in his head. Something she’d kept for herself. It must be something she’d stolen then. Fergus felt his heart leap inside his chest. ‘Come out here, I won’t hurt you,’ he said.

  The dark shape took some coaxing before it finally slipped out from beneath the mattress. Yes, it was a boy and he looked about three years old.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Fergus asked.

  The boy shook his head as though he didn’t know what a name was.

  ‘Don’t worry. You’ll so
on remember when you’re back with your mother and father.’

  The boy was filthy and gave off a stink worse than a dozen pigs, but he let Fergus lead him by the hand into the daylight. Yes, he could see Stig’s strong features in that tiny face. They set off towards the trees, their path taking them past the dead giant who lay with the enchanted sword still protruding from his chest.

  ‘Wait here,’ Fergus said to the wide-eyed boy, and climbing onto the body of his defeated rival he tugged at the deadly sword. At first it seem jammed too firmly between the giant’s ribs, but as Fergus’s hand warmed the hilt it suddenly slipped free of the lifeless flesh.

  ‘You already know you’re mine, don’t you,’ he whispered and as he wiped the giant’s blood from the blade, he murmured even lower, ‘A sword that makes every fight a contest of swordsmanship. I have a use for you.’

  He slipped the sword into his belt and took the little boy’s hand once again. ‘Come on, Hein, let’s get you back to where you came from.’

  THE BOY WAS BACK with his parents within the hour, but the celebrations in the village went on for a week afterwards and no one was more delirious with joy than Hein’s mother.

  ‘I’m so sorry for the way I treated you,’ she told Fergus at least a hundred times, usually while she was ladling more food into a huge bowl in front of him. ‘Is there anything else I can get for you?’

  Stig knew what the young hero wanted most. He led Gadfly out of the barn and, while his wife hugged Arabella and Hein into her skirts, he handed Fergus the reins. ‘You’re free to leave now and you’ll take our thanks with you, for the rest of your life. I was going to let you go anyway once the summer was warm enough for a boy alone on the roads.’

  ‘Thank you, but I’m not ready to leave yet,’ Fergus answered, surprising them both.