by Simon Kewin
“Riots, civil unrest, the breakdown of order in the larger cities. Death rates will undoubtedly rise as banks fail and governments struggle to maintain order. Health care systems will be overrun and suicide rates will soar. But I believe in time, six months or so, some sort of normality will be restored, possibly with the assistance of the military.”
Clara nodded and gave him her thoughtful expression. She already had detailed projections for all regions on the planet; she'd calculated them herself, taking the greatest care on the figures. Hitting 400% in South America would tip the whole continent into meltdown. Border disputes would escalate as populations tried desperately to flee the growing panic. Food production rates would plummet. Central America and then the USA would be in the firing line, triggering a massive reduction in global extraction rates. And thus ensuring she, Clara Sweetley, would incur the wrath of their masters on the other side of the portal. Buckley's efforts were, she had to admit, nicely done. 400% was certainly high but not very much more than the maximum rate she had calculated. He was no fool. But he had badly miscalculated.
“I am only concerned that we hit our targets, of course,” said Buckley, nervous of her silence.
“Naturally,” said Clara. “Well. Can we take this offline? Talk to me after the meeting. I wanted to discuss another matter with you anyway. Certain … reports that have come my way, matters we don't need to trouble everyone with.”
Buckley looked like he'd been struck. He grasped, immediately, that he'd misjudged her, overstepped the mark. There was something of the startled rabbit about the look he gave her. Really, she almost felt sorry for him.
“Of course,” he said.
“Very good. We'll carry on upping the rates toward those you suggest. We'll get to 350% and see where we are, shall we?”
A murmur of assent rippled around the room. They all knew what had just happened. No one wanted to follow Buckley.
“Excellent,” she said. “So, turning to matters closer to home, Williams, can we have your initial report on the events at Glastonbury yesterday?”
Williams, her Chief of Security, stood hesitantly before he began to speak, like an errant schoolchild. They had failed badly at Glastonbury, and Williams clearly expected he would be held accountable. Which, in truth, was exactly what was going to happen.
Williams began, covering events at the concert at the G-Mex centre, the strange reappearance of the criminals as they stole an electric guitar from the band one of them used to play in. A turn of events Ms. Sweetly still did not understand. Why a guitar? It made no sense. It couldn't be mere sentimental attachment. The women – the witches – from this world as well as the one from Andar and this guitar player had risked their lives. They'd very nearly been caught, too. It was her very good fortune that an undain lord had apprehended them – and then been defeated. That gave her some small amount of wriggle room with the White City. If her people had been to blame it would have been the end of her. Unfortunately for him, such leeway didn't need to extend to Williams.
“So they fled to Glastonbury with this guitar, pursued by our operatives?” she said.
“Indeed. Units were scrambled across England. We elected to follow them, surround them, rather than attempting to apprehend them in the sight of so many people.” Of course he was attempting to illustrate how sound his reasoning had been. It made little difference. He'd lost the trail of the people they'd pursued, all save the one who'd died at Glastonbury. It was a failure that couldn't be tolerated.
“And what is your summary of events on top of the Tor? Of how the end of our little witch hunt unfolded?”
“It is … hard to be completely sure of the facts,” said Williams. “Certain very unusual weather conditions – a thick fog – hampered our attempts to retrieve the people we were pursuing.”
“The wrong sort of fog?” said Clara. “I believe we have technology capable of seeing through a bit of mist these days.”
Her words did nothing to make Williams look any more comfortable. He picked up his pen from the table, twisted it around in his fingers, then laid it down again. “Yes. Of course. For some reason none of them functioned. No doubt some effect of the, of the … magical power our quarry was able to bring to bear.”
“No doubt.”
“Our … colleagues from beyond the Portal were present as well, of course. They, too, were hampered by the fog. It appeared to have a certain, well, solidity to it, as if it was a physical wall.” Williams, too, was attempting to pass the blame onto the undain. Exactly as she knew he would.
“I believe there was a fifth individual as well?” she said. “The driver of the car?”
“Yes.”
“An individual we have monitored previously, someone the criminals were known to have contacted upon their arrival in Manchester?”
Williams looked for a way out but couldn't find one. “Yes. He worked at an Indian restaurant. That was where they went to see him.”
“Do we know what was said?”
“No.”
“A shame. I believe there are indications, also, that our communications have been compromised? That these ridiculous witches from a place where they don't even have electricity were somehow able to direct a highly sophisticated cyber attack on our systems?”
She thought he was going to turn and run there and then. Instead he said, in a small voice, “That is correct.”
She held his gaze for a moment, watching him squirm. She would speak to him afterward, too. His period of usefulness had come to an end. Unfortunately, he appeared to have led a blameless life, a devoted husband and father, no habits beyond a passion for one of the Manchester football teams. For him, alas, the only way to ensure his silence would be to explain to him the extent of the danger his beautiful young children would be in should he prove untrustworthy. Either that or arrange his suicide. She hadn't decided which yet.
“So,” she said, “you believe those we pursued escaped into the other world?”
“Yes, that's our working hypothesis. When the mists finally cleared, there was only the dead woman, Fiona Weerd. The others were gone.”
“And you obviously scoured the area for signs of them?”
“We did.”
She nodded. Although, in truth, she had her doubts. The people they sought were resourceful, powerful. She'd make sure Genera carried on looking, just in case Williams had missed something.
“And there was no sign of the book either?” She spoke more quietly, almost gently. No one else in the room made a sound. Not all of them knew why they were pursuing the women, but everyone had heard something about the book. Rumours. Gossip. The Witch King coveted it. Nox had lost it and been replaced. Now she had lost it, too. She caught the briefest flicker of pleasure on Buckley's face. She added it to one of her mental lists.
“No sign,” said Williams. “The book and the criminals were gone. We recovered the car, of course, but that's all.”
She nodded. They weren't to know that the other witch, the girl Cait, was in Angere, in the land of the undain. She hadn't yet been apprehended, but the word from the White City was that it would only be a matter of time. And Clara had made it clear to her masters that, to the best of her knowledge, Cait and Nox had the book with them, that there was certainly no sign of it in this world. Whether that was true or not she didn't know, but it was enough to keep her safe. For a time.
“I see,” she said. “Then I think we're done. Buckley, Williams, if you could come and see me in my office for a little chat please? The rest of you, same time tomorrow, yes? Let's make sure we hit our targets.”
The smiles of relief on the faces of all but Buckley and Williams were a delight to see.
Fifteen minutes later, Buckley stood with his head bowed in front of her. He would be allowed to stay on in Genera, carry out some meaningless role that would pay him enough for him to survive without having any power. She had shown him all the evidence they had against him. His shock and horror were enough to convince her t
hey could rely on him to remain quiet. Nevertheless, they would keep an eye on him. Just in case.
When he was gone, gaze still cast down to the expensive carpet, Williams took his place.
“I'm afraid there is a price for failure,” she said to him, watching him from across her desk.
Unexpectedly, a spark of anger flared in his eyes. It was more than she would have given him credit for. He shook as he spoke. “And what of your failures, Ms. Sweetley? What of the mistakes you made when that schoolgirl escaped the refinery? Or were they even mistakes? Is it possible you let her go to inconvenience Mr. Nox? Those security systems looked like they'd been deliberately deactivated to me.”
He'd been saving these accusations to hurl at her. He'd made a mistake to speak them now. As it happened he was absolutely correct, and that was a fact no one could ever find out.
She smiled at him. “Serious allegations. We must report them immediately to our undain masters.”
He looked surprised at her words. “We must?”
“Oh yes.”
She pressed a button to summon the creature from Angere. Such a shame about those beautiful young children, but there it was. The board room was no place for the weak and foolish.
When the door opened, a look of triumph flashed across William's features. It turned to alarm when he saw the ravening, snarling creature that strutted into the room, teeth bared.
Williams took a step backward. “No! I promise I won't…”
After that there was nothing intelligible from him, only wordless cries and screams. After a few moments they died out, too.
When it was done, Ms. Sweetley pressed another button. “Cleaning Services? Could you send a special team to my office please? There are some stains that need removing.”
Fer, Catherine and the wise man known as the Lizard King walked in a line through dense woods, weaving their way among the boughs. The ground was soft beneath their feet, springy with a carpet of pine needles, and the only sounds were the chatterings of birds. No one had spoken for an hour or more. They were all exhausted, numb from events on the Tor.
Fer wasn't entirely clear what had happened on that strange, conical hilltop. Fiona had worked strong magic, it was clear, protecting Johnny while he tried to play his way back into Andar. She and Catherine had offered what help they could. Then the undain had broken through and everything had become confused. Her memories were mainly of snarling teeth, flashing claws and screams. Then some sort of explosion had picked them up, tossing them around, scattering them. Either she'd knocked her head in the chaos, or else she'd fallen into some sort of fugue as a result of the magic she'd worked, but in any case she'd lost her senses.
When she came round, she thought for a moment she'd been carried back to Andar, some effect of Johnny opening the portal with his guitar playing. It soon became clear that wasn't right. The Lizard King showed them the signal on his phone. They were still in England, yet somehow they'd been transported a distance from the Tor. A mile away, the Lizard King said, studying his screen.
“Fiona's doing,” said Catherine. The shock at the loss of her daughter filled her mind, painful to see. Fer tried to think of something to say to help, but there was nothing.
“We'd better keep moving,” said the Lizard King. They spoke in the language of Andar so Fer could understand. The wise man had learned the tongue from his years of eavesdropping, and Catherine had been taught it by Jaiin in the library. “If Fiona did hurl us away as far as she could, she did it to protect us, give us a chance. We can't throw that away.”
He was right, of course. Catherine nodded and they hiked away, nursing their aching, cramping limbs, following pathways through the trees that would take them far from Glastonbury.
Now, as they trudged along, Fer tried to think about what they should do. Of the five who had set out from Andar, only she and the archaeon remained. Seleena had died in the Tanglewood. Ran had fallen into Angere with Cait. Johnny had – seemingly – made it back to Andar with the book. She was alone in this strange, confusing world save for Cait's grandmother, the Lizard King and the bookwyrm. Catherine was kind, resourceful, but not particularly powerful. The loss of her daughter and worry about Cait flooded her mind. Fer knew very little about the wise man. He'd come to their rescue, but his magical abilities were limited. He could occasionally glimpse events through the eyes of others but could do little to intervene. Still, at least he and Catherine knew how this world worked. That would be some help, perhaps. The bookwyrm, too, if the creature could be persuaded to assist. She wasn't completely alone, but with the forces of Genera and Angere ranged against them, it seemed pretty hopeless.
“What are we going to do?” said Fer when they stopped to rest. They walked among oaks now, the trees' leaves beginning to turn to yellows and oranges. Clouds had slid over the sky, and a light drizzle pattered down onto the treetops.
“We may still be needed,” said Catherine, all colour gone from her voice. “We should go back to Manchester in case Cait needs us somehow.”
“How far is it?”
“Two hundred miles or so.”
Fer considered, worrying mainly about Catherine. She didn't see what they could do for Cait. “I think we need to rest. We're in no state to go back. I think we should hide for a time until we're ready for the journey. Perhaps we'll hear something across the aether about what we need to do.”
“Hide where?” said Catherine. “We're in the middle of nowhere.”
“I think I might know a place,” said the Lizard King, frowning as if recalling faint memories. “Maybe twenty miles from here. Used to be a witch lived there, kept herself to herself. She died five years ago but I might be able to find it.”
“Who lives in her house now?”
“Possibly no one. I stopped seeing when she went, of course. But even in her day it was a ruin. Four stone walls and only half a roof to keep the rain off. There was a tree, I remember, growing in the middle of one of the rooms, right through a hole in the ceiling. She used to tie decorations around its trunk and burn little candles in its hollows.”
“And perhaps it's been bought and converted into a luxury home since then,” said Catherine.
“Perhaps. But it was remote, half-way up a hillside. A barn or a cattle shelter or something. It's all I can think of. If we get that far, and if it's not safe, then I guess we can just carry on north.”
Catherine nodded her assent. She clearly had no strength for an argument. “Shame we can't drive. We could be back home in a few hours.”
“Too dangerous,” said the Lizard King. “We dare not hitchhike or take a train or anything. They may believe we ended up in Andar, but we can't be sure. We have to assume they're still looking for us.”
“Can you see anything through the eyes of others that might help?” asked Fer.
“I will keep trying. The visions ebb and flow. I have very little control over them.”
“What about your phone? The bookwyrm?”
“I'm almost out of power. Unless you can work some magic to recharge it?”
“I have no idea how to do that,” said Fer.
“We'll try this ruin,” said Catherine. “Twenty miles is a long, weary walk, but maybe we can make it before nightfall.”
None of them speaking further, Fer, Catherine and the Lizard King threaded through the trees, Fer looking constantly around in fear of pursuit.
3. A Single Word Different
Andar
They met on the green grass of the orchard of witches: Cait and Danny, Ran and Nox, Johnny, Ashen and Hellen. In the middle of the circle were two identical books: the same red leather cover, the same etched diagrams of skeletons and skulls, even the same old stains. It was weird to see them side-by-side. The left and right hand halves of Ilminion's Grimoire, one brought from Cait's world by Johnny, the other stolen from the Witch King by Cait. Both of them originally stolen from the enemy by Nox.
They'd made landfall in Andar early the previous day. Hyrn had rowed
through the night, never speaking, never pausing despite his age and seeming exhaustion. When they'd stepped out of his little boat he'd simply rowed off, back into the mists. Apparently he wasn't a man but some sort of woodland god. He looked pretty wrecked for a god. He reminded Cait of someone she'd met or glimpsed in a dream. She couldn't recall the details. She was just glad to be in Andar. Not safe ground, exactly, but safer. For now.
Johnny had been waiting for them on the banks, his dazzling, brightly-painted boat moored nearby. Smoke on the Water. That, in turn, had brought them down the An to the mouth of a river called the Gleaming which in turn led to Silverwater Lake and the island of the witches that she'd heard so much about.
It was good to see Johnny again. He'd explained everything that had happened back home as they floated along. Everything Cait's mum and gran and Fer had said and done. How they'd recovered his guitar and been hunted by the forces of Genera. And then how Cait's mother had died at Glastonbury Tor to give him a chance of returning to Andar. He hadn't known she was dead until Hellen, hearing word across the aether, broke the news to him.
“She gave me a message for Hellen,” he said. “Told her to save you, use the book or whatever was needed. But just to save you. That was all she cared about.”
Cait thought about that for a time, staring over the quiet waters of the An. Losing her mother so abruptly was still impossible to understand. It was like a coldness inside her. Now she'd lost both parents. How did you come to terms with something like that? So many things had been left unsaid. “But my gran and Fer survived?”
“So Hellen says, although communication with our world is patchy. They'll obviously still be in a ton of danger, but it looks like your mother managed to magic them away from Glastonbury before … the end.”
Cait nodded, not trusting her voice to work in reply.
At the island they'd been met by Ashen. He was tall and wiry, apparently taking after his dead father, the wyrm lord Borrn, but she could see something of Hellen in his face. A lot going on behind those eyes, Cait thought. She liked him immediately.
