The Ragwitch (6 page)

Over a dinner of slightly burnt cabbage, bacon, tea, and thick, crusty bread, Paul explained his troubles to Tanboule. At first, the old man hadn’t seemed terribly interested, but he soon became more serious, and asked Paul many questions, particularly about Julia, and the pyramid of flaming sticks that had transported Paul from his world to that of Tanboule (as he put it).

“So,” said Paul, when he had told all he could remember. “Will you help me?”

Tanboule sighed, and rubbed his great white eyebrows with the back of a gnarled hand. “We will help you, Paul—but I fear that more than good advice is needed here. For your story is but a little part of a bigger story, one in which many people have played their parts, for better or for worse or for no effect at all.”

“What do you mean?” asked Paul, who thought his troubles were complicated enough already. The fact that they might be like one tiny part of a huge puzzle was both terrifying and hard to understand.

“It is partly your story,” said Tanboule, taking a great swig of his tea, “because it is the story of the Ragwitch. A long, and sadly true tale which has yet to find a happy ending. Since it will undoubtedly have some bearing on your troubles, I suppose I’d
better tell it to you—though this particular tale is worth far more than the planting of one hundred and thirty-two cabbages. Fetch me another cup of tea, Paul, while I compose my voice.”

Composing his voice seemed to entail Tanboule eating more bread, so Paul poured himself some more tea as well, while he was waiting. Not that the drink was exactly what he’d call tea—it was sweeter, and scented with lemon and raspberry, but it was made from similar leaves and boiling water.

At last Tanboule finished eating and, stretching himself back, began, without introduction, his rambling tale—part history, part legend, but mostly a true account of an ancient evil.

“Quite a few centuries ago, this Kingdom was a less settled place than it is now,” began Tanboule. “There were no northern towns or castles, and fell creatures held sway over the lands north of the river Twyn and regularly came south to raid the smaller towns and villages.

“These raids, by such creatures as the Gwarulch, were an accepted part of life, albeit an unsavory part. But, as such acceptance is wont to do, it merely prolonged the crisis that was to arrive.

“In this case, the raids became worse, and after a few years, the creatures were no longer merely raiding, but actually conquering the northern marches of the Kingdom.

“The King in those times was a lazy fellow,
addicted to the quiet contemplation of dragonflies on mirror-smooth lakes. In fact, he even had a mechanical dragonfly that flew over a pool of the stillest mercury. Without his active control, the Canton Lords each tried to deal with the problem individually—but they failed to check the hordes of North-Creatures that were pouring over the Twyn. At last, the creatures came to the inner cantons of Salace and Thrisk—and the King was forced to do something.

“Fortunately, he did the right thing, which was to abdicate in favor of his son, who became King Mirran the Ninth. He was the total opposite of the old, dragonfly-watching King, and he gathered his army and attacked the North-Creatures, driving them back across the Twyn and into the far North.

“This took several years, of course, and during that time, the nature of the war changed. And sadly, it was King Mirran who was responsible for the changes, and the destruction that was to come of them.

“You see, all through this long war, magic had played no part. There were more Sorcerers, Wizards, Witches and even mere dabblers about in those days, but the Patchwork King would not allow them the use of Magic for war.”

“The Patchwork King?” asked Paul. “Who was he?”

“He ruled, and as far as I know still rules, in the land of Dreams and Shadows, where everything
that could be is and isn’t at the same time—and if you can understand that, you’re Wiser than all of us here at Rhysamarn. But it is from this land that all Magic stems, and it is to this land that all Magic-Workers must go, though now I doubt if any more than a handful know the way.

“This was not always so, for there were tales and legends of an Age of Magic, when wars were fought with all manner of Magic. Yet no true records survived from this Age, and it became no more than a legend known only to a few who sought after ancient lore.

“One such person was a young Witch, who worked as a healer with the King’s Army, for the Patchwork King allowed Magic for this purpose…”

“A Witch?” interrupted Paul. “I thought they were always evil?”

“Whatever gave you that idea?” asked Tanboule. “They’re like everybody else—good, bad, or middling. Anyway, she sought greater powers, and when not actively working, she researched ancient lore, talked among the stars, and learnt spells that had been lost for many centuries.

“It was this learning that she took to the King. For somewhere she had learnt of the Angarling: ancient warriors turned to stone, and submerged beneath the sea in the shallow waters off the Sleye peninsula. These warriors, she told the King, had sworn to serve against Evil, but had been taken unawares by an enemy Sorcerer, and turned to
stone. The existence of these Angarling proved that the ancient wars of Magic had occurred, and that there had been a time when the Patchwork King did not rule all Magic.

“Obviously, these Angarling knights were from this time, before the Patchwork King, so he would not be able to forbid their use. Furthermore, the spells required to wake them and make them serve were also from a time outside the reign of the Patchwork King—and the Magic the spells contained did not come from his land of Dreams and Shadows.

“Anxious for any help, the King agreed to let the Witch do her work. Foolishly, he did not consider one obvious fact: that if this waking Magic did not come from the Patchwork King, it could only belong to that other, Nameless Realm, so long closed to mankind—a place of death and witless violence, nightmares and fear, ruled by no one and composed only of a raw, ungovernable power…a power wishing the destruction of all life that did not worship it.

“Indeed, the Witch had already gone too far in her researches, and had been tainted by the lure of this power. With the King’s permission, she continued, and opened one forgotten door too many. She walked within the dark void beyond, and exchanged her heart for power, and her love became a lust for slaughter and dominion over every living thing.

“She danced the steps of Seven Wakenings, and
the Angarling made their heavy way out of the sea at Sleye. But not to join the King. She cast another spell, and the once-noble Knights were perverted to her cause. With the Stone Knights’ help, she joined the North-Creatures, and became their Queen.”

Tanboule paused to move the cat from where it had started to play with his empty plate, and took it up to lie in his lap. The cat purred happily, as Tanboule stroked it, and resumed telling the story.

“The war went badly for us then, with retreat after retreat, each following a great victory of the North-Creatures. For the Patchwork King still allowed no use of Magic, and the North-Queen used all the dark powers of the Nameless Realm.

“At last, our armies were defeated, broken and dispersed. All save a tattered remnant, besieged within the shattered walls of Yendre, once the bright capital of a cheerful, wealthy land. The King was there too, a wreck of a man, who took all the blame for the Kingdom’s destruction upon himself.

“The North-Queen’s creatures attacked the castle at dusk, and after a fierce battle, carried the day. King Mirran was slain, as were all the defenders in that last, hopeless stand.”

“What happened then?” asked Paul, as Tanboule faltered and stared into space, gently running his old hands over the cat’s ears.

“What happened then…” said Tanboule softly, “what happened then should have no part in any tale. It is enough to say that…for several years
after that, the North-Queen ruled from the Spire—a grim edifice raised for Her by a renegade Wizard, and pupil of her foul Magic—and Her creatures roamed the Kingdom, carrying out Her will. They slew every living thing they could find, destroyed forests, fouled rivers and salted fields—and in the doing of it, turned much of the Kingdom into a desert, a desert that grew with every passing day.

“All this time, the Magi, the Magic-Workers who might have been able to oppose the North-Queen, were being hunted down and slain. For the Patchwork King still would not allow the use of Magic. Till, one day, the Magi began to gather at Alnwere Hill—where the standing stones climb up to the Pool of Alnwere, all ringed about with a hedge of rowan trees, themselves older than the stones.

“By this time, there were few of the Magi left alive. But they gathered together, and bided their time, hidden beneath the protection of stone and tree. Midwinter was their goal, when the icicles hang all a-silver from the trees, and the white of snow removes all color from the land. Midwinter—the time when man and woman, child and beast, curl up and dream of warmth and light and colors richer than those of any worldly spring.

“At such a time, the land of Dreams and Shadows is close to that of ours, and this greatly augmented the Magi’s powers. They lit the great Midwinter Fire, and at the striking of the midnight bell, they cast the first of their great spells against the North-
Queen, where She held state atop Her Spire, hundreds of leagues to the north.

“In some ways the battle of Magic that was fought between North-Queen and Magi was worse than the original destruction wrought by the North-Creatures. Her spells spread ruin across the land, and the Magi were themselves forced to turn to similar destructive Magic.

“In the end, She would have won. The Magi’s Magic was never one of destruction, and they could not match Her power. Alnwere Pool lay dark, and showed no vision, and the great Midwinter Fire lay in ashes. The Magi lay about it: Wizard and Witch, Sorcerer and Enchanter—all too weak to resist as the North-Queen’s dark Magic overwhelmed them.”

Tanboule paused, and Paul looked away from his face for the first time. He’d been so intent on listening, he hadn’t noticed the room growing cold. The nearer fire had burnt down to ashes, and the stove was no longer glowing a cheerful cherry red. Tanboule sighed, and indicated to Paul to stoke up the fire and put in a few pieces of the heavy wood that lay stacked at its side. Paul quickly did so, eager to regain the cosy warmth in which Tanboule had begun his tale—though from the sound of it, a blazing fire would be small comfort for the horrors Tanboule was about to reveal.

“The Magi were beaten…” hinted Paul, when the fire was burning brightly again, and Tanboule
seemed ready to resume.

“Yes…” said the old man. “They
seemed
beaten, when from a most unexpected quarter came help for the dying Magi. Help from Ornware and his kind, the wild spirits of forest and lake, wood and stream. And with them rose the Wild Magic, that untamed power of Nature, in all its uncontrollable passion.

“No one knows what happened in the last wild hour, in the darkest part of the night. Who called the Wild Magic (if anyone did) no one knows, and whether it served them or itself is also a mystery. But in the morning, the North-Queen was gone, and all the Magi were dead, their Magic broken. Alnwere Pool was dry, the standing stones fallen. Only the rowans remained, bent over as if from a great wind.

“Later, a few Hedge-Wizards and minor adepts learned a little of what had occurred. And they discovered one important fact: the North-Queen had not been killed. She had been thrown out of this world—an act which should have killed Her. But even at the end, and amidst the bitter cold of the transfer, She had great power. She conjured a body for Herself, one that would be unsleeping, tireless, with no bones to break, or blood to bleed, or heart to stop.”

Tanboule paused, and watched Paul’s face. Paul saw Her in his mind, all bloated limbs and leaking straw, and said, “A rag doll…”

“Yes. A rag doll. And Her spirit passed into that
body, and She went from being North-Queen to being Ragwitch. Oh, She was banished to another world—a simple world, where the people understood Magic and that it should be left alone. And wards and guards were set upon Her (for that was the nest, and the crow), but She was still alive. As were Her creatures, though they scattered to the north, and most of Her major servants vanished with Her, being either slain or banished on that grim Midwinter Night.

“Here, Her fate became a thing for tales and stories, songs and legend. Genuine fear of the North-Queen became a sort of tame uneasiness about the Ragwitch, and She became the common blame for all household misfortunes or petty ills.

“Yet even this has faded with time, and now the Ragwitch is thought of only as a name, as the common conception of evil and all that’s ‘not right.’ Her North-Creatures have kept to the Sea Caves and other such remote corners of the land, and are rarely seen near even the most northerly settlements. Till now, of course. Gwarulch roam a-hunting, and worse things are to follow. It is a pity your folk lacked the wisdom of the people who made the Hill of Bones—but perhaps the Ragwitch already had Julia under Her control. In any case, because of your sister, She is back—and make no mistake, She is still North-Queen, as well as Ragwitch. And She will destroy this Kingdom if She can…and everyone in it.”

P
AUL SAT STUNNED
, a half-empty cup of cold tea in front of him. He knew Julia was in trouble, but not that much trouble! And everything was suddenly becoming very complicated—it was getting worse than math homework, or writing a report on some stupid play. Except here, failure meant much worse than a bad report.

“So where is Julia?” he asked Tanboule, who was sitting openmouthed, staring at the tiny red glow of the fire between the bars of the stove. “How can I get her back?”

“Where is Julia?” repeated Tanboule, dreamily. “Where indeed, but in a place far stranger than any you or I have trod. She has been consumed, and any part of her mind that still exists will be within the Ragwitch.”

“So how do I get her back?” said Paul, a little
more urgently. Tanboule seemed to be drifting off into a daze, just staring into the fire.

“I do not know,” replied Tanboule slowly, his eyes unfocused and dreamy, and his voice all heavy with sleep. “Yet I feel that it can be done, and that it will serve the Ragwitch ill.”

“Can’t you tell me anything?” asked Paul, leaning over to grab the old man’s arms and shake him. “You have to tell me where to start, what to do…I don’t know anything about this place!”

Tanboule’s head slowly tilted forward onto his chest, and Paul felt the muscles in the old man’s arms slacken, as if he had fallen into a momentary sleep. Then, suddenly Tanboule spoke again, his voice booming, filling every nook and cranny of the boat, echoing out into the night beyond.

“You must seek the Wild Magic that cast the Ragwitch away. Search out Air, Earth, Fire and Water, and bind them to your aid! For the Magi are dead, and the way to the Patchwork King long forgotten. Only the ancient powers of the Beginning can help you now!”

“Oh,” said Paul. He sat down again and absentmindedly drank his cold tea. Across from him, Tanboule fell into a deeper sleep, while Paul fought a sudden temptation to ask him how he could get back home—alone, without Julia. But the moment passed, and Paul went over to a pile of rugs and cushions, kicked them a few times to vent his frustrations, lay down, and fell asleep.

Tanboule already had breakfast cooked when Paul woke up. It was cabbage and bacon, bread and tea again, but Paul ate heartily, after a cursory wash.

Tanboule was strangely silent over breakfast, so Paul refrained from asking any of the questions he had stored up. Fortunately, fried cabbage seemed to have a good effect on the old man, and both his humor and his tongue gained a little life over breakfast. But neither of them mentioned the Ragwitch, or the tale Tanboule had told the night before.

Then breakfast was over, and Tanboule pushed the plates together, picked up the frying pan, and threw the lot into a bowl of water.

“Washing up later,” he said, taking Paul by the arm and leading him to the hatch. “First, we must talk again, about the Ragwitch and what you must do. The early morning air is good for talking.”

With that remark, he climbed up the ladder and disappeared through the hatch. Paul sighed and climbed after him. As he had suspected, the morning air was more cold than thought-provoking, for the sun had barely risen over the higher peak of Rhysamarn, and Tanboule’s house still lay in shadow.

“Last night,” said Paul, “you told me to seek the…Wild Magic…Air, Earth, Water and Fire—or it might have been Fire and Water—but those four anyway. And something about them being the Beginning powers, and the only things that can help now.”

“I said that?” asked Tanboule, surprised. “I wasn’t…asleep…by any chance, was I?”

“Yes,” replied Paul unhappily. “Does that mean it isn’t true?”

“No,” said Tanboule. “It means it is most certainly true. For I was half-asleep and half-awake and half-dreaming. Perhaps I have given better advice than you or I can know.”

“But what does it mean?” asked Paul.

Tanboule sighed. He picked up a stick and broke it in two, giving Paul one half, and throwing the other away.

“Knowledge is like that broken stick, Paul. I can give you half of it, but the other part is lost. You would be a long time seeking amongst the heather for the broken stick, and it is the same with the knowledge you need. I have told you all I know, and now you must search for the rest. But remember: here, Air, Earth, Fire, Water all refer to magical beings, not the everyday forms with which you are familiar. Just as Ornware the Antlered Man is a physical aspect of his forest, so too, other powers are represented by physical beings. The May Dancers, for example, are but aspects of that ancient forest. There are many of them, because the Magic of the forest is very strong.

“You must seek out the Elementals, and gain from them the knowledge that you need to get Julia back. But remember that the Elementals are part of Nature’s work, and are thus of the Wild
Magic. They may not desire to help you, and indeed, may put troubles in your way. But I think the Wild Magic has its uses for you, and so you will be used. And if luck and your actions bend the Wild Magic a little way to your needs, then all might yet end well.”

“That’s all very well to say,” said Paul. “But where do I begin? I mean, where can I find these Air and Earth thingies, for example?”

“The Master of Air and the Earth Lady,” corrected Tanboule. “And the Fire Queen and Water Lord. As to their location, I do not know.”

“Oh, great,” said Paul sulkily, thinking of all the cabbage planting and the dangers in getting to Rhysamarn, only to get a lot of information that he couldn’t use. He wasn’t Sherlock Holmes, after all! More like Watson, he thought glumly.

“However,” added Tanboule. “There are many people who remember the tiniest fragments of lost tales: a verse from some ancient song, or even a snatch of some childish rhyme—and all of these have some knowledge in them. I suspect you might meet someone who knows such a tune or two if you leave the mountain now.”

“Back to the Ascendant’s Inn?” asked Paul, brightening at the prospect of seeing Aleyne again. He’d know what to do, and it wouldn’t be left totally up to Paul. If Tanboule was so wise he ought to know that Paul didn’t like having to work out things for himself.

But Tanboule was shaking his head. “No, not back to the Ascendant’s Inn. A different track, and one that does not have an end as definite or as cosy as the inn.”

“Can’t I go back and see Aleyne first?” asked Paul, looking about him, at the yellow heather stretching out, and the grey shale, stark and alone against the sky. It all seemed forbidding and threatening again, and he dreaded having to set forth alone.

“No,” said Tanboule. “Your friend is no longer at the inn. He also sought the Wise, and he has duties he must attend to—which include alerting the King to the Ragwitch’s presence.”

“Probably no one will believe him anyway,” muttered Paul. “If they think She’s just an old story.”

“They will believe,” said Tanboule sadly. “For by then, She will have provided proof, and they will have heard the news from the North.”

Paul looked at the old man—for a second he was about to ask him more, and what the news might be. Then Tanboule sighed again, and turned away, saying: “Come on, Paul. Get up the ladder, and fetch your things. I must set you on your path before the sun is much higher in the sky. And I still have many cabbages to plant.”

A black cloud of smoke hung heavily over Bevallan, half-lit by the huge fires that flickered yellow and orange, down in the middle of the
town. Off to one side, shapes moved back and forth amongst the smoke, surreal figures accompanied by the clash of weapons, screams of fear, and the vicious cries of hunting Gwarulch.

Julia looked out of the corners of the Ragwitch’s eyes at the silent ranks of the Angarling. They ringed the Ragwitch, high on the small hill that overlooked what had once been the town of Bevallan. The Angarling had carried out their task, and now stood, stolidly awaiting new orders.

The Ragwitch stirred, and lumbered farther down the hill, and Julia shuddered as the Angarling grew closer. For they were no longer gleaming white, but smeared with reddish stains, of which there could only be one origin.

They had led the attack upon Bevallan. Great, crushing stones that lumbered on regardless of the blows rained down upon them. And there had been few of those anyway, thought Julia, remembering the panicked people in those half-dark minutes before dawn.

Only a few of the townsfolk had tried to fight the attackers—they were the ones still fighting in the western part of the town, where the houses and huts were close together and the greater numbers of the Gwarulch couldn’t get at them.

Everyone else had just tried to flee—running, screaming, from the crushing stones and the lip-licking Gwarulch that came bounding in after the invincible Angarling. Some had made it out towards
the southern edge of the town, clutching valuables and children, pets and precious livestock. But the Meepers were aloft, waiting for just such a target, too cowardly to join in the real fighting.

Julia took a firm grip on her thoughts, and tried to detach herself from the Ragwitch’s senses, to hide away deep in Her mind, around that white-lit globe. But the Ragwitch wasn’t as distracted as Julia had thought, and before she had got halfway, Julia was snapped back, Her thoughts filling up her mind.

“Escape, Julia? From such entertainments as I offer?” sneered the Ragwitch, biting into Julia’s mind, sending images of the morning’s slaughter.

“I won’t watch!” screamed Julia, deep within the Ragwitch. But she knew that there was no alternative—the Ragwitch was too strong, and even the short moments when Julia returned to the globe were allowed by the Ragwitch, probably to make returning to Her foul thoughts and senses even worse.

“Watch, and learn,” whispered the Ragwitch aloud, letting Julia feel Her wormlike tongue writhing in a cloth-dry mouth. “Watch as we walk among my new subjects, in this place they once called their town.”

With a wave of a cumbersome hand, the Ragwitch began to descend into the smoke-clouded ruin, the Angarling crushing a way before Her, with a guard of Gwarulch pacing needlessly
behind and to the sides.

Up close, the destruction was even worse than Julia had first thought—and there were many dead, crushed by the Angarling, or ripped by the teeth and talons of the Gwarulch. Here and there, a Gwarulch corpse bared its fangs in a rigor nothing would release; often, the dead Gwarulch were lying wrapped around a man or woman—victims who had taken their murderers with them in those few frenzied seconds of mortal combat.

After the first few minutes, shock captured Julia as the Ragwitch lumbered through the wreckage, pausing occasionally for closer inspections of rubble or corpses. Julia felt it was like some awful slide-show, where the images flashed up on the screen so quickly they were like a continuous picture, but you could never quite get to fully see each individual scene.

And the noise was eerie too—or rather, the lack of it. The screaming and sounds of fighting had faded out, and through the Ragwitch’s ears Julia could only hear the hiss and crackle of flames, the rasping of stone on stone of the moving Angarling and the panting of the nearer Gwarulch with their smoke-rasped breaths. And, of course, the rustle of the Ragwitch dragging Her cloth feet along what had once been Bevallan’s main road. All of it seemed to build up into a rhythm of unreality in Julia’s head, and she hardly noticed the Ragwitch’s constant stopping and starting—just the hypnotic
swaying motion of the Angarling and the high-pitched wheezing of the Gwarulch, in and out to the beat of the walking stones.

Then the Ragwitch spoke, a high, screeching series of words that broke into Julia’s semi-conscious state, sent the Gwarulch scuttling for cover, and caused the Angarling to shift clumsily back to their Mistress, forming a haphazard ring of stone around Her.

Angry thoughts swarmed through the Ragwitch’s mind, lightly touching Julia as they swarmed past like molten butterflies. Each carried memories of pain and hatred, and an intense, biting cold. Then they were gone, and the Ragwitch’s private thoughts once again drew back, away from the small section of Her mind that Julia shared.

A few minutes passed while the Ragwitch stood completely still within the ring of Angarling. A few of the guard Gwarulch sneaked back, but they took care to keep still and silent, echoing their Mistress’ mood. Julia took the opportunity to peer about, but she could see very little through the gaps between each Angarling, and there was still a lot of smoke. They seemed to be in some sort of square bordered by houses, most of which were either blackened ruins, or were still burning. All except one house, a timber, two-storey building of green panels between exposed black beams. It stood unharmed, between two other burning houses—and it wasn’t even singed.

The Ragwitch moved Her head, and Julia had the uncomfortable feeling of having her eyeballs move involuntarily—except they weren’t really hers, she thought sadly, so it was only an imaginary discomfort. At first, Julia couldn’t see what the Ragwitch had turned to look at, then Oroch emerged from the smoke. He was still wrapped in tar-black bandages, but now he wore a blue silk shirt, still bloodied from its previous owner. Six Gwarulch formed a ring around him, peering into the smoke with their harsh red eyes, looking for anyone foolish enough to attack the Ragwitch’s most trusted servant.

“So, Oroch!” snapped the Ragwitch, before he was even past the Angarling. “The Art is dead and forgotten in Bevallan! Then how do you explain that?”

Oroch followed Her outstretched arm, and saw the green house standing intact amidst blackened ruin. His wet, red mouth gaped several times, and then he squeaked, “Perhaps just luck, Mistress? A simple coincidence, to have avoided the fire…”

The Ragwitch hissed, exposing her shark-like teeth, and Oroch fell silent, cringing. She towered over him, and slowly reached out a puffy, three-fingered hand. Clumsily, She gripped the end of one of Oroch’s bandages.

“Three failures I allow you, Oroch,” She whispered, Her voice full of menace. “And then we shall see what lies beneath these bandages I placed
upon you so long ago. That house is protected by the Rune of Lys, and the Rune of Yrsal, and the Rune of Carral. And they are fresh-painted, Oroch, and that is your first failure. Two more, and…” Cruelly, She started to draw the end of the bandage off. Oroch whimpered, and She let go, turning towards the black-beamed house of green. “Lys, Yrsal and Carral,” whispered the Ragwitch, her wormlike tongue flicking out with each word. “But that is only three of four, and none to keep out Me!”