Witch Crag (22 page)

There were five horses now to care for on the hill fort. The sheep people were still frightened of them, but the farmers tended them lovingly and rode them on the grasslands every day.

Arc sought out Kita again, and talked through his plan to let five farmers ride out with the footsoldiers when the flares went up. “Horses make a big impact,” he said. “They'll swell our ranks impressively. But it's not only that. I want Pitch and the farmers involved from the start, for their pride – there's so few of their fighting men left.”

“I understand,” said Kita. “It's good you thought of it.”

Sometimes Kita felt as though she was drawing closer to Arc than to anyone else on the hill fort. Which was strange, and sweet, and bitter, with the war waiting to happen. She didn't know if it was Arc the headman she was drawn to, Arc the hero whose task was to lead them all to safety and a new way of living. Or grey-eyed Arc who called her tree rat, whom she'd held on to so tightly on her flint ledge in the dark. Maybe the two were inseparable.

*

As well as teaching them archery, Kita took her six girls climbing up the rock face to her flint ledge. None of them were as nimble as her, of course, but none were as fearful as Quainy had been. Soon they'd all mastered it, and could get to the summit in minutes. It had been cleared of its brambles now; there was room for a crowd of them. They'd tease the poor lookout until he went scarlet, and gaze down over the grasslands, shivering as they imagined the hordes of the city swarming towards them, and practise drawing their empty bows. In only two days the seven had become a close-knit band. But they still kept Kita at a little distance and none of them asked her about her escape, or about Witch Crag.

Another day went by, another night. Drilling, preparing, training, and waiting, waiting. And then, right after the start-of-day meal on the sixth day after the council, a wail of terror went up from the young footsoldier on watch.

Everyone knew what it meant. They all rushed out into the open and stared in the direction of the old city, and up at the sky. Three thin streaks of red scored the clouds, with shimmering slicks behind them. Barely noticeable if you weren't expecting them; unmistakable if you were.

Arc ordered the alarm; iron clanged on iron, and everyone seized their knives and staves and clubs, and gathered in front of the great gates, Pitch and his four men leading their horses. The headman lumbered out to the front. “Well, sheep people,” he said. “It's upon us at last. The greatest threat to our survival that we've ever faced. I've been your headman for more years than I can count now, and I know all of you. And I know each of you will play your part. . .” He broke off, overcome, and motioned to Arc to speak.

Arc stepped forward hurriedly. “We're all prepared!” he cried. “Each of you knows what your part is. Don't think about what faces us, just think of playing your part, playing it to the utmost. One step at a time, one minute at a time – one death at a time. Just try for it not to be yours!”

An attempt at laughter followed this; then there was the dismal sound of a young footsoldier being sick, and a child crying.

“All right,” said Arc grimly. “Those riding or running out with me – come forward.” Pitch and his men mounted their horses and rode to the gates. The elite core of some thirty footsoldiers jogged behind them. “Now,” said Arc, “those who are going to fight from the woods – line up.”

Drell had been put in charge of this group; he marched them up behind the advance guard. They were mostly older men looking grim, and young boys looking terrified.

“Kita!” called Arc. “You and your archers – get in position!”

The six girls ran over to the rock face, and began nimbly scaling it, their blackbows on their backs. It was an alien, almost shocking sight to the sheep people, and a murmur started up among them, but when the girls reached the top and waved their blackbows, the murmur became a low cheer.

“Yes!” shouted Arc, on the tail of the cheer. “Yes, we're an army! A proper army! And in our differences lie our strengths. We've come together, and we've trained, and – backed by our allies, our true allies – each one of us is going to fight to the death for what we've built here – for what is ours – for our
home
!”

A louder cheer followed. The sheep people had never shared passion before; they looked around at each other, eyes alight, amazed.

“Now – open the gates,” ordered Arc. “It's time.”

Heart in her mouth, Kita watched as Arc jogged out of the gates with his footsoldiers, all of them running in time, a warlike rhythm. The horses paced beside them, heads tossing, with their shaven-headed riders on their backs. “They look fearsome,” muttered the girl to Kita's left. “I hope the city creatures aren't too scared to chase them here.”

Drell was watching by the open gates. Once the advance guard had reached the far edge of the grasslands and disappeared from sight over the makeshift bridge, he raised a wildly trembling arm. “Right,” he called out, harshly, “it's our turn. We'll spread out through the woods, like we practised. What we couldn't practise is holding our nerve when the witches appear. They'll be swarming into the trees above your heads.
Don't look at them!
Just keep focused on—”

He broke off. The headman had taken hold of his arm, and lowered it, keeping hold of it. “Drell,” he said, “I appoint you my second. I'll be relying on you when I lead this band to the woods. I see many of my old comrades before me – I'm proud to lead you into battle once more. And you young uns – you've stepped up, you make me proud too. Watch out for these young lads, men – give them comfort, give them courage.
And don't fear the witches!
Give them a welcome when they come. They're our allies. They're saving our skins. Now,
forward
!”

As he yelled the command, the older men raised their weapons and roared, then they jogged determinedly towards the headman. Kita, looking down on them, felt suddenly intensely moved; this was the same courageous band she'd watched as a tiny child, being led off by the headman to fight off marauders. The young footsoldiers and boys followed, all infected by the sudden confidence, the uplift in spirits, now the headman was back in charge. And then they too all went through the great gates.

The matron strode forward and, with another woman, closed and barred the gates. “Back to your posts!” she cried. “Look to the little ones, keep them calm! We must be ready when they start bringing the wounded in!”

*

More waiting, waiting, waiting, the six girls seated on the flint ledge, peering into the distance, longing and dreading to see the return of Arc's small army, and whatever horror would be chasing it.

“Shouldn't the witches be here by now?” asked one of the girls. “In the woods?”

“How do you know they're not?” snapped Kita.

“Well, I can't see anything. . .”

“They're good at that. Now keep your thoughts to yourself.”

“I'm just
saying
—”

“Well
don't
!”

The truth was, Kita had been peering at the trees for some time now, and she could see the sheepmen all spaced out on the ground, even though they were supposed to be hidden, but in the branches of the trees – nothing. Her mind was full of the horrible vision of Arc turning to face the hordes and then – nothing. No fire. Just utter devastation as his small brave band was annihilated.

The girls waited on.

And then, at the far end of the grasslands, a horse rider erupted on to the makeshift bridge and galloped over it, followed by the other four farmers on horseback, and then Arc and his men came into view, running, running, a long column of them snaking across the bridge and on to the plains.

“Oh, lord,” breathed Kita, as her heart seemed to seize with terror, “oh lord help us, the hordes will be next.”

As soon as the runners were all across and spacing out across the grasslands, the horse riders doubled back, as though rounding them up, and the band jogged towards the steep slope that led up to the hill fort.

And the bridge seemed to shake with emptiness, with the horror of what was to come. “I can hear them,” croaked one of the girls. There was a dull, rhythmic chant, low and menacing and still faint, and in time with the thud of hundreds of feet. And then the first of the city warriors came into view.

They were slow, steady, relentless, as they made their way four after four across the bridge. Jagged metal spikes bristled above their heads; ragged metal plates protected their bodies. They came on, endlessly, fanning out across the grasslands, forming one wide line, then another behind it, fed by the terrible flow across the bridge. When three lines had formed, they began to advance slowly on the hill fort, while the flow across the bridge was as steady as ever, forming line four.

The girl next to Kita began to sob. “When will they
stop
?” she whimpered. “There's hundreds of them!”

Kita didn't trust herself to answer, but she seized the girl's hand and squeezed as she yet again scanned the woodland, desperate to see witches in the trees.

And now a fifth line was being formed, as the fourth line set off up the plain. There were far more than the two hundred that Skipper had counted at the farmlands. The union was outnumbered by three to one, maybe four. The chant was so much louder now they were closer, and it had quickened; it was violent, hateful, the city men stamping in time as they moved forward.

Arc and his men and the horses were now up against the hill-fort walls. Looking down, Kita saw Arc order everyone to slow, to hover, as though they were waiting for the gates to open. She could sense their fear; she could smell it. And they, like her, were casting frantic glances at the trees.

And now, something different. As the fifth line started to move forward, there was a clanking, rumbling sound, and then a battered black van lumbered its way into view on the bridge, pushed by four squat men, all stripped to the waist.

Witches
,
witches!
Kita's mind screamed.
Where are you?
Fire the arrows!

The first line of the city army quickened its pace further, the lines behind copying. Arc and his men had turned round now, to face the hordes. Army facing army. “
Hold!
” Arc roared. The gap between the armies narrowed, relentlessly. “
Hold!
” Arc yelled. A second vehicle came into view on the bridge. Kita felt like she'd been slammed in the stomach.

The witches hadn't come.

They hadn't come.

Then suddenly, like a glorious explosion of rage, from the woodlands on the left, dozens and dozens and dozens of arrows shot into the sky, a great screaming sheet of them, crackling with fire. As they fell to their mark in the far side ditch, a second flaming sheet of arrows went up, from the right this time, soaring up and swooping, whistling down into the nearside ditch.

Kita felt a great breath fill her. Silently, she cheered the witches, sent her apologies for doubting them.

The dreadful chant had stopped, the hordes had shuddered to a stop. They looked up at the sky, panic stricken – and then the ditches exploded into fire, a fire that grew higher and hotter and wilder with every piece of dry brush and wood it devoured.

The witches had judged their timing perfectly. The two wagons were engulfed by flame, a terrible barrier completely blocking any chance of escape.

The hordes broke from their lines, shoving and pushing each other, stumbling or dropping to the ground, their arms over their heads as the fire mounted higher. A horrible animal wailing filled the air.

Then there was another deadly rain of arrows. Twice as heavy and tipped by poison, this time, not fire, and shot simultaneously from the woods on both sides, over the raging ring of fire, straight into the heart of the city army.

“
ON
'
EM!
” roared Arc. The horses and the footsoldiers raced down the slope and ran at the hordes. If they weren't dead, they were dying; if not dying, they were disoriented, and unequal to the fight. The clash of weapons filled the air, as Arc and his men scythed through their enemy.

The ring of fire had engulfed itself; it was beginning to dwindle.

“
Charge!
” bellowed the headman.

Out from the woods, jumping the dying flames, came the old campaigners, canny and deft, and they laid straight into the enemy. The boys followed them, darting and ducking and learning fast. Then the witches stepped out from the trees and through the heat haze. They aimed at close range, and shot only when sure they'd reach the right target.

Kita stared down at Arc, unable to wrench her gaze away from him. He was in the thick of it, lunging at the city men, stabbing and slashing with his long knife – he looked indomitable. She focused on him, willing him strength and safety, and the battle raged and boiled around him.

“I wish we could
do
something!” exploded one of the girls. “We're stuck here doing
nothing
!”

“Maybe not,” said Kita. She walked right to the edge of the rock ledge, and gazed down. Then she raised her blackbow, and slowly, carefully, let fly. A monstrous man with a bloodied, three-pronged pike roared and clutched his eye, Kita's arrow jutting from between his fingers.

The six girls all lined up next to her. “Well done, boss,” breathed one.

“OK, take care,” said Kita. “Only shoot when you're sure of an enemy hit. That might be when one of
them
has just killed one of
us
. Don't think it's too late – it'll stop the next death.”

Steadily, relentlessly, carefully, the girls fired down at the grasslands, and the pile of enemy bodies grew around the steep slopes of the hill fort. The ring of fire had sunk right down now, and nearly died away. Kita, shouting encouragement to her band of archers, told them that the battle was nearly won, but her words felt hollow. True, the first assault had been overwhelmingly successful for Arc and his men. The hordes had been panicked by the fire, shocked by the three-fold attack, and easy to slaughter – but now they'd rallied. Now they were holding their ground. And there were still so many of them. Still far more than Arc's men and the witches.

Arc hadn't buried them.

“
Kita!
” shrieked one of the girls, pointing down.

Several wiry-looking city men were swarming up the rock face towards them, hand over hand, knives in their mouths. “
Fire!
” screamed Kita. “Fire
fast
!”

The arrows found their marks – the climbers screamed, peeled off and fell. One man made it right to the top, but the girl to Kita's left aimed straight at his face and he arced back, wailing.

“Well done,” croaked Kita, breathing slowly to stop herself gagging. “Well
done
.”

But it was no time for celebration. At the far end of the field, the burnt-out wrecks of the two vans suddenly lurched forward, as if being heaved from behind by giant hands. Kita groaned. She knew what it meant – what it had to mean. The horsemen had failed to defeat the rearguard of the city army, and now some huge vehicle was shunting the wrecks across the remains of the bridge. Then the city army would roll on to the field, indomitable in its metal boxes. She watched the burnt vans heave, and anguish seized her.

It can't end like this, it can't. We've fought so hard, given our all – overcome huge odds to unify and fight together. We can't just be mown down and destroyed by the spawn of the city
.

Wildly she slewed her eyes over the field, searching for Arc. And then she saw him. Three of the horde were on to him, surrounding him, baiting him, jumping back as he tried to knife them. She could tell even from that distance how exhausted he was. Her anguish intensified.

And then, like fire licking up through her veins, the witch rage came in. She felt it, pounding in her heart, behind her eyes, an intense, murderous pressure. She turned on Arc's assailants, felt her rage storming out against them, saw the air around them shaking like a fire haze. Arc was fending off two of them – the third raised his axe to deal a death blow.

Everything in Kita screamed to stop him, her skull scoured by the hate and rage streaming out. There was a shift, a wrenching in the air. Arc's executioner dropped his arm and dropped to his knees, blood trickling from his mouth. The second man dropped beside him – stabbed by Arc, who then turned to deal with the third.

“
What's happening
?” croaked one of the girls, terrified. “Something dreadful's happening.”

“Oh, lord,
look
,” groaned another, pointing at the sky. It was suddenly black with crows, gathering. “They've smelt the battle. They've come to feast.”

“The fighting's stopped!” gasped a third.

It was true. The battle had stopped boiling; both sides were looking about themselves, dazed.

Kita stared down at Arc. He'd slashed the neck of the third assailant, and now he looked straight back at Kita, as if he knew her part in all this. As if he was pulling dark energy straight out of her.

A shattering noise broke the spell, as a huge black vehicle crashed across the burnt-out bridge, hauled by four slaves. A second was right behind it; a murderous chant started up, keeping the slaves in rhythm.

And then a young footsoldier screamed: “Treacherous
bitches
! Look at them – leaving the
field
!”

The witches were retreating. Moving together, they turned, and melted once more into the forest.

“
Cowards!
” railed Drell, as his neck spurted blood.

“
Victory!
” bellowed a gore-spattered city fighter.

For a moment, absolute despair gripped the sheep people and the farmers, as they watched the second great van roll over the ruined bridge. Then Arc roared, “
Back
,
men!
We're not finished –
back!
”

And the fighting started up again, more desperate and bloodier than before. The light on the grasslands had been dimmed by the black cloud of crows. They hovered, eerie and ominous, cawing. Waiting.

Kita's eyes followed Arc, willing him to stay alive. He fought like a man possessed, slashing, stabbing, urging his men on. But the slave-drawn vehicles kept rolling over the broken bridge – a fifth now, then a sixth – and the numbers on the ground were still so weighted against them, especially with the witches gone.

Kita couldn't bear to think about the witches going.

“Why have you stopped shooting, boss?” wailed the girl to her right.

It was true, she'd stopped. She strung another arrow in her blackbow, and gazed down. The battle raged right up to the gates of the hill fort now; shooting clean was impossible. “We should go down,” she whispered. “Fight on the ground.” Then she remembered what Arc had said about a retreat – how the archers should cover the men as the gates were opened. Was it that time now?

She stood helpless for a moment, hands hanging. Witch rage spent, she felt exhausted. And what had it achieved? Nothing. Nothing that could last.

Suddenly there was another shift in the air. A weird wrenching. The fighting froze – everyone stared up at the sky and the crows who were now descending, coasting menacingly down. The great dark shadow cast by them seemed to surge into the forest, boil around the trees . . . and then it flooded out again, blacker than before. And Kita saw that the shadow was dogs, hundreds of them, wild dogs streaming on to the battlefield, with the witches walking among them.

It all happened with terrifying speed. The dogs hurled themselves into the fray, snarling, growling, ripping and tearing flesh. Kita stared in disbelief as men everywhere were pulled down, raked with claws and teeth. . . Then it hit her that the witches seemed to be herding the dogs, directing them – away from this man, on to that – steering them away from their allies and towards their foes.

Wekka's voice soared above the nightmare noise. “Get back to the hill fort! Our people –
GO!
” The shattered footsoldiers and bloodied farmers began to stumble towards the great gates, and the dogs let them alone as they savaged the men from the city.

“Follow me!” cried Kita, scrambling over the edge of the rock and starting to climb down. The six girls threw their blackbows across their backs, and went after her at speed.

“We have to open the gates,” she panted, “then stand guard with our bows and make sure only our people come inside.”

She reached the ground, and raced for the great wooden stake that barred the gates; the two quickest girls joined her, and together they lifted it free. Then they seized the gates and pushed them out as far as they could against the piles of dead and dying, right out into the thick of battle. Men fleeing, stumbling, groaning on the ground. Dogs seizing and ripping and gorging. And the footsoldiers and farmers, staggering towards them in a great, weary mass.

The witches were everywhere, steering, protecting, and now they began to form a barrier between the city men and the allies. Arc was there, next to Wekka, dogs skirling around them, urging everyone towards the hill fort. Line after line, the men stumbled through the half-open gates. A thin dog broke free from its pack and raced towards a young boy limping along on his own. Kita sprang in front of it, glaring, and the dog slunk back.

The ragged army trudged on, reeking and bloody. Maybe half the number that had started out that day. Arc and his elite men, those that were left, began to gather up the wounded and help them in, and the witches helped too. The archer girls held their place, arrows ready, but no more dogs and no one from the city tried to get through the gates. Behind her, Kita could hear the matron bellowing orders, and all the women coming to the aid of the survivors.

Then Arc was in front of her, with Wekka behind him. He had a great gash under his left cheekbone, pouring blood, and another on his arm. “Close the gates, tree rat,” he said, gravely. “It's done.”

For a moment, the three stood looking out as the hordes continued to surge towards the broken bridge at the far end of the grasslands, desperately fleeing the great tide of dogs.

“You witches steered the hounds well,” Arc murmured. “Hardly a man of mine hurt by them.”

“That wasn't just our skill,” said Wekka. “The city scum had never seen dogs before – the dogs smelt their terror. And they worked with us. They can tell the difference between people – and carrion.”

And now the crows were coming down, in great, black drifts, to gorge on the dead and the dying. Kita and her archers closed the gates.