Witch Crag (16 page)

Then they walked on to the upper sleeping area, and Vild halted by her little tent. “I need this to myself for a while,” she said, gently. “I've got a lot of thinking to do. But you're welcome to sleep here again tonight.” She pulled open the tent flap, then turned and said, “Goodbye for now, Kita. I'm so glad poor Finchy connected with you. It means there was a purpose to her death. She used to say she saw you all the time in her dreams. A spiky-haired girl who climbed like a tree rat.”

Tree rat, tree rat
– the words seared through her. It was what Arc used to call her. And now she'd found out that a witch had called her it, too. A link, what link? Vild had talked about links in the chain that must be forged. . .

She sped on, continuing the walk around the perimeter, thinking of Arc cramped in the shallow cave. He'd hate it, he'd loathe being vulnerable. He'd be fighting the fear that must be swamping him. She found herself hoping it wouldn't break him. Why did she care? Why?

She remembered Finchy spinning as she died, looking straight at her, the power of that one intense look. She remembered how, after that look, unthinkable things had clicked into place in her mind. . .

And now, once again, she had the extraordinary sensation of things clicking and fitting together in her mind. Confusing, challenging, terrifying things.

She walked on and on, until night fell on the crag. She paused only to cadge a bit more bread and fruit from the cookhouse. She didn't want to join everyone round the fire pit for the evening meal. She saw Raff and Quainy in the distance, and fell back into the shadows to hide. She didn't want company.

Vild was asleep and Moss was snoring gently when Kita slithered into the tent later that night. The dog wagged his tail drowsily a couple of times in welcome but stayed lying down. Maybe, she thought, as she wriggled into the sleeping bag, maybe an answer would come to her in a dream, like before. Maybe Nada would appear, and tell her what to do.

But she couldn't even get to sleep. She lay staring at the folds of cloth above her, as awake as she could be. And her restlessness grew until at last she couldn't stand it any longer. She shucked off the sleeping bag and crawled out of the tent again.

It was a cold clear night, with a bright half moon casting clear shadows. She started to walk, fast, half running. One part of her mind knew exactly where she was going, and was taking her resolutely there. The other part looked on in doubt and fear at what she was doing.

She hurried on, and soon was drawing close to the solid rank of bars that kept Arc imprisoned. There was no guard on duty. The bars were enough.

“Arc!” she called softly. No answer. She drew closer, peered into the black recesses of the shallow cave. The moon shone through the bars and made more bars on the floor. There was a hunched shape at the back of the cave, but it didn't move.

“Arc, it's me,” she said, coming right up to the bars now. “It's Kita. Please talk to me.”

The shape moved. Then suddenly, shockingly, it sprang towards her, shot an arm out through the bars, and seized her by the wrist.

“Get me out of here!” Arc snarled.

When the shock had subsided, Kita found herself wanting to laugh. “How am I going to do that, huh? Especially with you hanging on to me.”

“Call someone. Tell them I'll break your arm if they don't let me out.”

“They're all asleep. No one would hear me call. And anyway, they'd shoot you before you could hurt me.”

Silence, but he tightened his grip on her wrist. And Kita realized something momentous. She realized she was no longer intimidated by him. Not after all she'd been through since she'd left the hill fort. “OK, Arc,” she said. “Let go of me or I'll sink my teeth into your hand. And we all know how toxic a tree rat's bite can be.”

Arc made a noise that could almost have been a laugh, then he let go of her wrist.

“Are you OK?” she asked. He'd moved back again – she couldn't see his face. “Have you got food, and water?”

“Yes, I've got food and water. And
no
, I'm not OK. That's a monumentally dumb question, even for you.”

“Arc – please talk to me. Tell me why you're here – why you climbed up here. And then maybe I can persuade the witches to let you out and you can parley with them.”

“Parley with those rancid hags? I'd sooner rot in here.”

“They're not rancid. They're not even hags. They're brilliant. You'd like them if you'd open that trap of a mind and think clearly. Arc, you were
right
about them. They just tinker about with corpses, like you said, to scare people off. They're not cruel and inhuman.”

“Oh, right,” he said bitterly. “They've shoved me in here as a big treat, to be kind to me.”

“Oh, grow up. You were climbing up the north face of the crag! What were they supposed to do?”

“You're bewitched. They put you under a spell and got you here. I'm not listening to you.”

“You
know
you don't believe all that magic crap, Arc. You didn't believe it when you refused to slit the witch you caught, and you don't believe it now. I came here of my own free will because I wanted a better life. Deal with it.”

“Fine. Be a hag. You live your way and I'll live mine.”

“Arc, listen. If we don't act soon, none of us will live.
Listen
to me! We got trapped in the old city, on our way here. They're preparing for war.”

“I know,” he said.

“You
know
?”

There was a long pause, as though Arc was wrestling with his desire to stay crushingly silent and his desire to talk. The desire to talk won out. Kita heard him drinking from something, then he said, “When we were out looking for you three pathetic runaways, we saw smoke coming from the direction of the old city. When we couldn't find you, you ungrateful
bitch—
”

“
Ungrateful?
”

“You and I were going to mate together!”

“Oh,
right
. Well, I must've been under a massively strong spell, after all. No one who
wasn't
bewitched would refuse you, right?”

“Right!”

“And be massively
grateful
too, right?”

“Do you want to hear what happened, or not?”

“I do. Go on.”

“I will if you'll shut up. When we couldn't find you, I reported back, and was given permission to take four footsoldiers and go and investigate the old city. We got in through a breach in the walls. We ran this way, that way, avoiding trouble – what a stinking
sewer
that place is! After long, sleepless hours we found the source of the smoke. They're forging weapons – great, crude, jagged pikes and poles, out of the broken metal of the city. Hundreds of them. Terrible things. I was trying to get closer to grab one when we were spotted. This gang gave chase – it came to a fight – we lost Ethan. Poor sod. Then we raced over this open space, blood all over the concrete floor . . . and got out. We slept in the forest and the next day discovered we were right near Witch Crag.”

“And decided to climb it?”

“The lads were against it. But I wanted to see what went on up here. I wanted to complete our reconnoitre. I thought the hags may be preparing for war too – in league with the old city.”

There was a silence. Arc shifted nearer the bars, and the moon shone on his cheekbones and his mouth. Kita gazed at him. He was looking straight back at her.

“Arc,” she began, “now you've seen what it's like here – you know, you
must
do, that there's no way the witches could be in league with the old city. They want to be in league with
you
. With the sheepmen, and the horsemen, and the farmers. We all have to stand together, or the old city will devour us all. When we were there, we didn't see their weapons, but we saw their vehicles. Hundreds and hundreds of metal cars, moving armour, to protect them when they attack.”

Silence. Arc moved back into the shadows again.

“Arc – think about it,” she went on, urgently. “If anyone can convince the sheepmen and the horsemen to join forces with the witches, it's you. You're going to be the next headman. It's
you
.”

“That's crazy,” muttered Arc, at last. “You're crazy.”

“Yes. I was crazy enough to think the witches weren't evil. And you thought that too! You
know
you did! And now you have the proof of it, if you'd just open your eyes.” More silence. Then the sound of Arc moving again, right back into the cave. “OK,” said Kita. “I'm going. But think about it. Sleep on it.
Dream
about it. And I'll see you tomorrow. OK?”

Then, incredulous at what she'd done, amazed at the way the talk between them had just racketed along, honest and open, Kita started to make her way back to Vild's tent.

Kita slept deeply that night, and woke feeling calm and confident. She ate breakfast with everyone and chatted with Raff and Quainy, who were bubbling over with how wonderful life was on the top of the crag. They'd battled so hard to get here that the thought of a war wasn't going to spoil it for them. Kita smiled as she listened to them talk of sculpting and weaving; she was warm towards them, and told them she was fine. They didn't mention Arc, which was weird; but then neither did she.

She wanted above everything to go and see him again, to see if he'd come round to her way of thinking. She wandered down to the main concourse, keeping an eye out for Vild, when she saw Nada waving to her over the heads of a bouncing group of toddlers. Daria was there too. Kita hurried to join them. Nada and Daria were singing and the toddlers were jumping up and down, clapping, and loudly joining in. Nada turned to Daria, and asked her to take over. Then she seized Kita's hand firmly, and led her away.

“They look so happy,” said Kita. “I still want to cry when I see them.”

“Well, you must spend more time with them later, Kita,” said Nada. “Tell them all about your adventures in the old city. Suitably toned down, of course. Don't scare them silly! But now – we have rougher fish to fry. We're going to see Arc.”

“We are?” gasped Kita.

“Yes. I'm going to reintroduce myself to him. He was a baby in the pens with me, just as you were. You probably don't remember him there. He's a few years older than you – he was on his way out as you came in. But you overlapped.”

The thought of Arc as a baby was unimaginable to Kita. She found herself smiling as Nada towed her along. Before long, they were outside his prison. The usual crowd of curious witches were gathered there, some of them trying to get him to talk to them. Nada walked briskly into the middle of them and said, “I wonder if I could ask you all to very kindly let us speak with this unfortunate young man on our own?”

The respect felt for Nada on Witch Crag was unmistakable. Everyone nodded, smiling, and melted away.

“Arc,” Nada called, through the bars. “Arc, it's Nada.”

At the sound of her voice Arc flinched, and twisted round to look. “Oh, this is foul,” he groaned. “This is necromancy, you're dead, your body was eaten by dogs.”

“Clearly not,” said Nada, firmly. “Use the evidence of your eyes.”

“I don't trust my eyes,” he said, turning away again. “Or my mind. Not any more.”

“Oh dear. Feeling sorry for yourself this morning, ay?”

“Get away from me.
Spectre
.”

“Arc,” said Kita, gently, “it
is
Nada. She was still alive at her funeral – the witches came to get her and chased off the dogs and the crows. Arc, you need to get out of this cage. Your mind needs to crack open and it can't do it penned in there. Please say you'll parley.”

Arc said nothing. Nada took hold of a bar in each hand, and leaned her face against them. “You were such a spirited little boy,” she said. “Such courage. And you've fulfilled your early promise. Look at you. I'm so proud of you, Arc. You're still destined to be the next headman, you know. You just need to find your way to it.”

Then she took Kita's hand, and led her away.

The morning progressed with chores and talking but it was as if a dark fret of fear lay over the crag now. Few people smiled. Vild stayed closeted in her tent. Wekka took a small band of warrior witches to scour the lower slopes of the crag and observe the old city. They arrived back in the early afternoon, rabbit carcases hung from their belts, accompanied by a band of four young farmers. Word spread fast when the shaven-headed strangers walked on to the main concourse, and soon all the witches were gathered around them.

“We met our four friends on the lower slopes,” cried Wekka, loud enough for everyone to hear. Loud enough for Arc, in his prison, to hear. “They were climbing up to parley. What we feared is happening already. Pitch, tell them your tale.”

Pitch stepped forward. Like all the farmers, he had three dark slashes spaced from the top of his neck to the crown of his head, and with those and his worn, torn clothes he had a barbaric, brutal air. But his voice, when he spoke, was clear and straight.

“We've come to ask your help,” he said. “We won't survive without your help. The city raided us last night. Not in their usual sneak-thief creeping way, the way we've got used to. They . . .
invaded
us. They came with metal wagons, fifty or more, and savage weapons. Dozens of us were slain trying to fight them off. They left with their infernal vehicles piled high with our produce. We have very little left.”

A grief-stricken, fearful murmur spread from witch to witch.

“We know they'll be back,” Pitch went on. “They goaded us with it. About coming back and leaving some of their worst to enslave us, to farm for
them
. We need to smash them first. Chase them into their rotting holes and exterminate them. But they're working together now – they've unified. They're armed and they're organized. We're afraid they're too strong for us. But
you
– you have ways, you witches. We ask that you use them. Come with us as we invade that sewer – fight alongside us.
Use your powers!
”

More wretched murmuring from the witches. Pitch exchanged an anguished look with the three other farmers, then spread his arms wide in supplication. “Don't you see, this is not just about us? We
all
have to fight back to survive! They'll come for you next, with your herbs and your skills and your weaving. You won't be safe, not even up here on your mountain top. They'll come for anyone who has anything they want.”

Wekka walked slowly forward. “It would be madness to follow the raiding party back into the old city,” she said. “We'd be surrounded and destroyed.”

“But you have
ways
—” Pitch insisted.

Vild raised her hand. “Pitch, we
do
have powers,” she said. “We know about healing, we have subtle senses that help us. But we don't have the kind of powers people are afraid that we do – that you
hope
we do. We can't smite with a look, we can't call up fire and lightning.”

Pitch and his men stared at the ground, shuffling their feet.

“We'll stand by you, farmers,” said Wekka, firmly. “We have no choice. We'll help protect your lands – my warriors with their blackbows are superb. But our numbers are small compared to the hordes in the old city.”

Silence, broken only by an undercurrent of fearful whispering of witch to witch, and the downcast muttering of the farmers.

Then a loud, insistent hammering broke through, the hammering of a fist on wood.

“Let me out!” Arc shouted. “I demand a parley!”