The Witch of Glenaster

by Jonathan Mills

  It was about halfway through the morning, as my head nodded reluctantly into sleep, that I felt the shadow - not a shadow like the ones cast in dense woodland such as this, that thicken and deepen at nature’s will, but rather something that had a definable malignancy, and that seemed to steal into the waggon, and brush tangibly against my skin. I must have given a start, for Magnus awoke also, and looked at me with grumpy bemusement.

  I leaned towards Lukas, smoking on a cheroot as he drove the horses forward, and whispered:

  “I think we’re being followed.”

  I do not know to this day what made me think so with such conviction, but it was clearly enough to persuade him, for with hardly a sign that he had even heard what I had said, he made a low whistle, and gestured to Griffin, who then turned around and headed back to join Fyn, at the rear.

  Now I clambered over the packs and belongings in the waggon, and looked out at the two riders behind; and I could hear them talking above the noise of the wheels and the horses, but could not make out any words. But then suddenly, Fyn nodded to Griffin, and galloped off back into the wood; and the other man remained behind, stealing frequent, anxious glances at the retreating road.

  I felt foolish then, for my precipitate behaviour – I was wasting our time, I decided, and this would only make our journey longer. Several minutes drifted by, filled only with the sounds of our passage along the road, the smell of freshly churned earth in our nostrils, and the cold air scraping at our lungs.

  Then Fyn returned.

  At first I thought it was a trick of the light, or that my eyes somehow mistook me. But then I realized there was something forming, at the very edge of my vision, something taking shape, far off in the recesses of the forest. And that shape became a man.

  He came barrelling towards us, and I could not at first see his expression; Griffin turned his horse suddenly, and the beast reared up and whinnied loudly, its eyes rolling in its head. For Fyn was coming, but he was not alone.

  Behind him rode Samuel.

  My first instinct was joy at their return – but then something struck me as wrong. For Fyn was leaning at a strange angle out of the saddle, as if he were about to topple, and he seemed oddly stiff and straight-backed.

  As they approached I saw why. And it was the eyes that told me: Fyn’s eyes, that had been so bright and full of mischief, now bleached to white; the pupils all but invisible, the irises rinsed away. There was nothing behind them but a mind struck as still and dead as a stone. Unfocussed, and unseeing, they gazed upon us for the last time; and Fyn’s young face, now scorched of feeling, his mouth hung open like that of a dead fish, was a lamentable sight, and indeed it seemed almost ashamed that its wretchedness should be so witnessed by its friends.

  His hands were tied behind his back, and he was lashed crudely to the saddle, and an arrowhead protruded like a bone a good couple of inches from his throat, the blood about it already dried, and the kerchief below stained a sooty crimson.

  This was horrible enough; but my eyes then alighted upon the man riding behind him: Samuel Hollis, or, rather, the man who had been Samuel Hollis, for I saw very clearly that it was no longer him. Unlike Fyn, he seemed at least alive, and in control; but I saw as I looked that it was not so, and that he was more dead than anything, for all the purpose with which he rode, sat high upon Lukas’s powerful courser. He was ensorcelled, a servant of the Witch. And the look on his face was terrible.

  Griffin’s horse now made a run for it, bolting so suddenly he was nearly thrown clear of the saddle, and I heard Lukas shout after him as he sprang away. Then the horses pulling the waggon started picking up speed, so that I was flung back onto some sacking, and Magnus cried out, as we lurched unsteadily. I heard Lukas swear, and the frame of the waggon shook, as if it might buckle under the pressure. When I put my eye back to the opening, I could still see Fyn, riding mindlessly on, his body now tilting away from his horse, like a flower bending in the wind.

  But I could not see Samuel.

  He seemed to have disappeared, and I shrunk back when a shadow passed quickly over the canvas; Magnus reached forward and threaded his hand into mine. The bowling of the vehicle seemed to lessen slightly, as Lukas brought the horses under control, and then I heard Thomas and Griffin galloping back towards us, and I saw Thomas bring himself level with Fyn, riding alongside, and carefully, gingerly, cut him loose from the saddle, and, with some effort, manoeuvre the dead man’s body on to his own horse. He looked exhausted.

  Griffin was shouting something at Lukas, who shouted back in reply, but I could not quite catch what they said, and it was when I turned back that I saw Thomas was gazing up at the roof of the waggon. And as I wondered what this meant, I saw Samuel Hollis’s face, the face of the dead, leer vacantly into my own, as he slid down the back of the waggon and tried to force his way in; and for a moment our eyes locked, and I nearly lost control of myself. For as well as my grief for my lost friend, and what the Witch had done to him, I saw that in his hand he clutched a knife.

  Its handle was of jet, and it was similar in design to the ones used by the Librarians in the Imperial Compendium. The blade was keen, and pattern-welded, dark waves of beaten iron and steel rippling across its surface. And Samuel held it out to me, as if it were a gift, though his hand, white as bone, retained a fierce grip, and his face looked murder. For a moment, I saw my own death, just as I had at Cornelius’s house, in the Moonland; I saw the blood pump out hopelessly, and felt the searing pain, the frantic desperation of the dying. But the vision passed; and when I looked again I saw Griffin haul Samuel out of the way, and the two men wrestled like schoolboys, desperate and angry. The older man had jumped from his horse, and grabbed Samuel by the forehead, pulling his head so far back I thought his neck would snap.

  But Samuel had the strength of the undead.

  He twisted the other man around, and almost pushed him off the waggon, so that Griffin had to cling on to the canvas, which had been torn open at the back, and was flapping loosely in the wind. I could not see his horse, nor Lukas’s, so I supposed they had run off, and I wondered for a moment why we did not stop; but then I realized that to do so would be madness, and would make us easy prey for whatever waited out there in the dark plenitude of the woods.

  Lukas kept the horses to a firm whip, and I heard his voice, hoarse from urging them on; behind us, Griffin and Samuel continued to struggle, and there were shouts from Thomas as he rode along behind them, but I could see that Griffin had the weaker hand in the fight, and I feared for him. Hastefully, I searched about the floor of the waggon for some weapon to use, something to help him, even though it would mean Samuel’s death – or re-death, for he was surely no more alive now than a marionette. I wondered if he could be killed.

  I felt a gentle tug at my shoulder, and turned, startled, to see my brother, looking up at me, frightened, but composed, his large eyes serious and grave, and in his hand a seax, almost half as long as he was. I could see he meant for me to take it, though he did not speak; and I was so surprised I could not reply, but merely managed a half-nod in response. He watched me as I turned back to face the two men behind, and he kept watching as I raised the knife to strike.

  I did not know how I should go about attacking Samuel: I had never attacked a man before, or indeed done more than scrap with the boys in our village, and that was hardly sufficient preparation for this. I half-closed my eyes, wincing slightly as I flung the blade outward, my heart bracing my ribs, and a dreadful trembling in my fingers. But I knew what I was doing; I knew that to do this, or worse, was what would be required when I faced the Witch. I struck.

  The first blow, aimed towards Samuel’s chest, bounced clean off his tunic and scraped against one of the brass buttons of his greatcoat. Then I struck again: and this time I thought I did hit something, something soft, and there seemed to be some give at the blade’s point. As he realized what was happening, he tried to grasp the seax from my hand, while fighting off Griffin with his other a
rm; but he could not do both and remain clinging on to the waggon, and he clearly judged the other man the greater threat, for he concentrated his efforts on him, and batted at me when he could as a man does at a fly. I had to hold myself as steady as possible, so that I did not fall out of the waggon; and so doing, struck out a third, and then a fourth, time; and with my fifth blow - with Samuel’s fingers pushing against me, and his hands now bloody from trying to grab the knife - the edge bit deep into the right-hand side of his chest, and, as it did so, the handle slipped from my fingers, and the long dagger twisted into his flesh as I pulled away, and he gave a howl, and reached desperately at it as if to pull it out; but as he did so, Griffin brought his fist smashing down on to the back of his head, and he fell off the waggon, grasping at the air.

  He landed on his backside, sitting in the road like a dazed child, as if the spell were broken; and for a moment he looked up at me with pleading eyes. But as I opened my mouth - to speak, or merely to weep – I saw Thomas, who had no time to move or adjust his speed, come galloping upon us, and his horse’s hooves swept over Samuel like a running wave, and left his body a broken wreck on the road.

  “Where is Joseph?” I heard Griffin call, but I could not make out Thomas’s reply; he bundled Fyn’s body into the waggon, muttering:

  “Sorry. Cover him up.”

  Then he rode forward to speak to Lukas, and Griffin half-fell, half-climbed alongside us, lying exhausted on a rug; and I turned and looked at my hands, and saw the dark blood there. Then I looked up and saw my brother’s face, gazing at me with an unreadable expression, his face ruddy and still. I did not know what to think. I did not know what to say to him.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  We rode on for another few miles, Thomas behind, Griffin in the waggon with us, till finally the wood started to thin, and light peeped in - cautiously at first, but then in greater abundance - and I was glad to see it.

  We tried our best to cover up Fyn’s body, but the blanket kept slipping away from his face, and I could not stand to look at those lifeless eyes as they stared upwards at nothing. I wanted to shield Magnus from it, but he resisted me; it seemed he was no longer upset by the presence of death. He had already seen so much. I looked at my brother, and felt the prickling in my eyes and throat like a slap. I should not have brought you here, little one, I thought. Forgive me.

  Silence was our companion for the rest of our journey out of that cursed place, and by the early afternoon we had reached the edge of Salem Forest, and a wide stretch of meadow, grey-green in the sluggish light, stood before us. Gawping over Lukas’s shoulder, I could just make out a long, brown line, parallel to the horizon, about a mile or so distant.

  “That is the Meer,” he said. “We should be safe once we are on the other side.” But his tone suggested otherwise.

  “How far to the crossing, Luke?” asked Griffin, though the effort of talking seemed a great one, and he wheezed as he spoke.

  “A mile-and-a-half, two at most,” said Lukas. “We’ll make it.” The men’s voices were flat: their hope and will seemed to have left them.

  We rolled gently through the meadow, between the forest and the river, and the horses seemed in no hurry: I suppose they were blind-weary with fatigue. When I looked back at Thomas, I saw his face was the colour of ash, and his right arm shook slightly on the reins; once or twice, he almost seemed about to fall asleep, and I called out to him; but he never lost control of his horse, and, when he heard me shout, simply smiled and raise his hand in greeting.

  The Nailinch Crossing is a wooden causeway, about five yards in width, that spans the River Meer, rolling heedless below. The banks on either side are not steep, and I suppose a rider on a horse could just about swim across, but I would not like to attempt it, and was grateful to keep my feet dry. The planking rumbled beneath the wheels as we made our way to the other side, and, once a good half-mile clear of it, Lukas brought the waggon to a stop, and Thomas rode up to join us.

  We had lost half the horses – Griffin’s and Fyn’s were now gone, as well as Lukas’s, and the men did not seem hopeful of their return – and Lukas and Thomas tied up the others, and put feed down for them, then took Fyn’s body and set a fire under it, and watched it burn. Magnus and I stretched our legs in the long grass, for it was a clear autumn day, the sun sharp and merry in the sky. When Lukas gazed warily across the river, Thomas tried to reassure him.

  “They won’t follow us. Or even if they do, they will have to go the long way round. The drooj cannot cross running water, and there are fast spells laid upon the Nailinch Crossing, put there by wise sorcerers, many years ago.”

  He took out a cigar and lit it, and watched the smoke as it spun and died in the air. Then he breathed in deeply, and closed his eyes for a long time; and, when he opened them, he winked, and chuckled; but his good humour soon passed, and grief filled his face once more.

  We ate a mean lunch, of flatbread, and sour apples, before heading on, through orchards and meadowland, the thick, wet grass sometimes pulling at the wheels, and Lukas having to stop more than once to unclog them. Griffin was hurt worse than we had thought, and Thomas dressed a wound that had seeped blood into his shirt. The two men exchanged a look, but said nothing in front of us. I asked Lukas when we would reach the Green Cities.

  “Soon enough, miss. They’ll find us, most like, long before we reach them. All the land between the Meer and the Soar is theirs, and nobody from Ampar dares to interfere. We’re lucky we made it here at all, though it’s cost us dear enough.” And I heard him spit, and curse under his breath.

  It was getting on toward evening, and I was wondering if we would arrive at the Green Cities before nightfall, when I became aware of something around us, a strange stillness, that seemed to pervade the air and cling to it like dew. Leaning up on my elbow – for I had been trying to sleep – I saw Magnus, crouched at the side of the waggon, listening.

  “Can you hear anything?” I asked. He turned to look at me.

  “We’ve stopped,” he said. And I realized it was true: the waggon had come to a complete halt, and nothing seemed to stir.

  Griffin had grown weaker, and from time to time would let me hold his hand, and wipe the sweat from his brow. I climbed forward now, to the front of the waggon, and took his hand in mine, and he seemed to smile a little, though his eyes did not open. I looked out at the sorrowing night, over Lukas’s shoulder, and saw the shapes of the trees either side of the path, like fleshless creatures swaying in the twilight. Thomas was up ahead, a few yards distant, quite still and with his back to us, his horse flicking its tail slowly back and forth, but otherwise as quiet and composed as its rider. It took my eyes a good few moments to adjust, but when they did I saw why we had stopped.

  We were surrounded.

  On every side, silent as ghosts, and almost invisible against the trees, a great company of men was assembled, clad in long black cloaks, hoods pulled low over their faces. For a few terrifying seconds I thought the Watchers had returned, and we were all about to die; but then I saw Thomas dismount from his horse, and stand, as if waiting for something; and the men then started to move away a little, backing slowly towards the woods, one of them nodding gravely at Thomas, who nodded back. I watched, transfixed, and was wondering what kind of men could appear at will without making a sound, when a strange figure started to walk towards us.

  He was tall, a few inches over six feet at my guess, and wore a long cloak, like that of the others, except it had an iridescent sheen, and rippled slightly as he walked. He also wore a kind of headdress, with dark feathers upon it, and a single amethyst set in its crown. He had about him a confident, though not a haughty, air, and I supposed him a king or leader of some kind, perhaps even a magi. But what I noticed as he grew closer, and a small smile started to break his features, was his face, the right side of which was clear and bright, and tanned like a farmer’s, but the left side of which was dark and scarred; and his right eye was brown, and friendly; but his le
ft eye was green, and was not.

  He stopped before Thomas, and bowed low, and Thomas did the same. Then he raised a hand to us in greeting, and said, in a voice that was dry and deep, like a great bell at the very bottom of the world:

  “Greetings, brothers. I am Richard of the Towers, Guardian of the Green Cities. We permit no evil here, and while I sit in the hall of my fathers no witch, nor demon, nor any dark thing that crawls upon the earth, or wanders across the heavens, will I suffer to enter my domain. You, Thomas Taper, are an old friend here, and any who travel with you are welcome. We have been watching for you these past four days, expecting your arrival. But I see there are not so many of you, now, as when you began your journey. But all of this can wait. The day grows cold, and we must get within the Cities’ Walls. There we can talk further.”

  And he turned and walked back the way he had come, and the crowd closed around him like a sea, and gradually began to move off. And, looking back at Lukas, and nodding, Thomas remounted his horse, and we set off again, into the dark, the Green Folk forming a shield about, before, and behind us, and we were guided by their steps, towards their home, that I had heard so much about, in myth and in fairy-tale.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  “She is everywhere now, they say.”

  We were sat in the common room of our host’s lodge, as the people of that country call their homes. There were thick drapes hung about the walls, and lamps suspended from the ceiling by chains, and the windows were shuttered against the cold. In one corner of the room, a stove burned brightly, a long pipe carrying the smoke away through the ceiling, and we were warm in the fleece blankets Richard’s people had given us.

  I could almost forget we were nearly two hundred feet off the ground.