“You can’t be hungry yet, I gave you a plate full of chitterlin’s for lunch,” Gramma said before settling back down into her deck chair.
Badger sighed, shook his head and gestured in the direction of the front door.
“Look, lad, I’m not stirring from this chair, I’ve got gardening to do, can’t you see?”
“Excuse me!”
Gramma pulled the handkerchief from her head and looked across at the hedge lining the bottom of her garden. A head was bobbing up and down. “Who the bloody hell are you?”
“I am… Simon Fletcher... steward to... the Right Honourable... Countess Aggrapella…... Fitzmichael” bobbed the head.
“Look, instead of bouncing up and down, why don’t you just come round the front and knock on my door?”
The bouncing stopped. Badger rolled his eyes. After a couple of minutes, there was a bang on the front door. Badger nudged the old woman.
“What? I told you, it’s too early for dinner!”
As a last resort, Badger started jumping up and down on the spot. Finally, the penny dropped.
“Oh!” Gramma said and, wincing a little as she raised herself out of the deck chair, she hobbled off to the front door.
The steward wore the expression of a man exasperated from a long and difficult conversation, and he hadn’t even told the old crone what he was here for yet. Badger smiled to himself. In her own way, Gramma Tickle was a genius.
“What do you want then?”
“May I come in?” Fletcher said, inflating his magical shield of self-importance.
“No,” Gramma responded, sticking a pin in it, “and I can see those two thugs you’ve got in the trees over yonder.” For a moment, she seemed to look into the distance and then relaxed as muffled cries floated across the front garden.
“That’s them sorted out. Now, what do you want? And ain’t Fletcher an odd name for a steward? Shouldn’t you be off fletchin’ somewhere?”
Fletcher’s face went a deeper shade of purple. “It is true that my ancestors were of humble origin, but I have risen beyond them.”
“Well,” the old woman said, “shit floats, I suppose.”
“You insolent crone!” Fletcher bellowed. “You will not speak to a member of her Ladyship’s court in such a manner.”
Gramma smiled and put her hands on her hips. “Seems like I already did, cock.”
Realising he’d lost the battle of wits29, but hoping to salvage the war, Fletcher cupped his hands in front of his mouth, turned to the silent woods and shouted. “Arnole, Cedric!”
“We can’t, sir, we’re trapped! An’ Arnole, he’s got an awful rash on his bum. Poison ivy, I think.”
Fletcher pulled himself together, drew a deep breath and sighed. “Be it hereunto and heretofore known that all practitioners of the occult arts are hereby to be detained at the pleasure of her excellency the Countess Aggrapella, liege lord and keeper of the faith. You are hereby ordered to remain on these premises until such time as I return to procure your arrest.”
The steward was one of those people who, when lost for words, falls back on the sort of legalese bollocks that puts a sticking plaster on his bruised ego while simultaneously treating the communication of an actual message as an optional extra. As it happened, Gramma had got the gist simply by watching the man as he spoke and detecting the anticipation of revenge playing across his features. She slammed the door in his face, waited a few minutes and let the two thugs go about their sore business.
“Oh bugger,” she said to Badger. “Time to get packing, lad. We’d better go see Jessie Hemlock.”
#
“There,” said the elf, pointing down into the valley.
They’d been in the Beyond for three days now and Bill felt as though his legs were wearing down. The landscape had changed from primeval forest to the sort of bucolic setting you’d see hanging on your grandma’s lounge wall. Without the fat cows, dogs and people. Bill had tried asking Stingzlikeabee how the countryside worked since there were well tended fields on either side of the cobbled road they’d been following and the air was full of the heavy scent of crop pollen.
The elf hadn’t responded except to point out, as they travelled further, a sudden change in the aspect. The quiet fields of cereals had given way to pasture on which grazed large horned reptiles and, alongside many of the rivers they crossed, Bill spotted waterwheels and, he was pretty certain he’d seen something mechanical wading in the distance.
And now there was no mistaking it. They were lying in the lush grass on the lip of a valley, looking over the edge at a small settlement down below. Crudely built huts sheltered within a palisade of sharpened timber, the protective circle broken by a large open gate. Outside the entrance stood what looked like a totem pole of wood and metal. And then it moved. “It’s a robert!”
“It is an iron-walker, and they are destroying our world,” snarled the elf.
Bill turned to Stingzlikeabee, flinching from her blazing eyes. “But what are they doing here? Aren’t they the ones sent by Minus into the Darkworld?”
“Yes, but it didn’t take them long to discover the Beyond. The portal keys Minus made for them meant they could leave the Darkworld as easily as they entered it, and why wouldn’t they when this awaited them?” she swept her arm as if to encompass the world.
“What are they doing?”
The elf scowled. “Building, digging, destroying, mining. They pollute this world and kill any who oppose them.”
Bill rolled onto his side, tearing his gaze from the scene below. “But surely there’s only a few of them, you must have fighters. And you have the draconi, I’ve seen them in action.”
“What are they made of, these monsters?” Stingzlikeabee whispered.
“Wood and iron, in the main,” Bill responded, puzzled. “And a little glass, rubber and bronze.”
The elf nodded. “Yes, bronze. And what is bronze made of?”
Now Bill was completely nonplussed. “I dunno, I guess it must contain copper to give it that colour.”
“Yes, copper. The red metal, the evil metal. We hate it and the draconi cannot defeat it, they weaken.”
“We do, friend Bill,” interjected Sebaceous. “It is like the opposite of sticky rock you use for direction.”
Bill thought for a moment. “Magnets? Oh, so copper repels you.”
“Yes, we cannot get close enough to fight.”
Bill filed that information away and turned to look down at the settlement again. He scanned the area and counted perhaps a dozen of the machines lumbering about the landscape, though it seemed likely there were more out of sight.
“And what do you want me to do about them?”
“You have fire,” hissed the elf in his ear, “turn them to ashes, let the wind blow them away.”
Bill shook his head. “I’m sorry, I’m not going to incinerate my own … people,” he said.
Stingzlikeabee went to protest, but she was interrupted by Sebaceous. “Friend Bill, please to come with us.” He felt a tug on his leg and saw the little lizard looking up at him sadly, his hat shading his eyes.
They edged back down the hill and Bill picked Sebaceous up and put him back in his hip pocket. The draconi directed him to the base of the slope where a narrow path ran parallel to it. They’d been walking for, perhaps, half an hour and the line of hills they’d sat atop had dwindled to little more than a series of modest green mounds. Sebaceous halted them and pointed up the slope to where a solitary boulder sat.
“I was hatched here, long ago,” he said, when they reached the top. Bill could see little steps cut into the rock and the suggestion of holes in the ground beneath it. But what he noticed most was the crater in the centre of the hill-top.
“What happened here?” Bill asked, dreading the answer.
Sebaceous sniffed, swallowed and swept his arm around the scene. “This was my home, and the home of my ancestors, the place I wanted my offspring to grow up. Hundreds lived here, now Rockonahill is dead.”
“Was it the machines?”
“Yes. They think draconi are vermin like rats in your world. Or maybe they know we are thinking peoples but do not care. They came with their diggers and many died in the earth. Some burned with liquid fire. Others ran away. This is why I was chosen to lead my people on our mission to find you. I hate your kind, friend Bill, for what they have done. But I find I cannot hates you as I wished to.”
Bill felt the heat swell within him as images formed in his mind of the draconi being slaughtered by the machines Minus created. Bill wasn’t responsible for what happened here, but he felt responsible for putting things right, or at least attempting to. He had no idea how that was going to be achieved - he didn't want to resort to fire and he wasn't entirely sure he had enough in him to handle them all in any case. But they couldn't stay here, ruthless colonists in an alien world.
"I will do what I can," he said.
Chapter 12
BRIANNA'S ARSE WAS SORE. DON'T walk all the way to Montesham, they'd said, hire a pony, they'd said. Except there hadn't been any ponies or horses available for hire on the black market at midnight on a rainy summer's Wednesday.
She probably shouldn't have fallen for the patter of the slightly inebriated night guard at the city stables, especially once he'd reveal that his name was Honest John. But, having shaken his head sadly when she asked if any of his charges were for hire, he'd kindly led her to the back of the building (at which point her hand was on her sword hilt) and invited her to borrow his transportation as he couldn't bear to think of a young lady such as herself being on the roads alone in these troubled times.
Brianna considered herself immune from this sort of misogynism, but the facts hadn't rearranged themselves and she didn't fancy the long walk to the city - quite apart from the prickling feeling that she had little time.
So she found herself aboard Donald, the exorbitantly expensive mule and former mode of transport of Honest John. He was a capricious, stubborn bastard who appeared to suffer from small equoid syndrome and had become a positive nuisance when they encountered female horses on the road.
Then there was the problem of her mission. She was confident that Gramma could look after herself since she could, after all, call on the forest to come to her defence if words weren't enough to deal with any trouble. But Velicity lived in the centre of Montesham where it would be easy to grab her and she'd be unlikely to break loose her wind for fear of injuring passers-by. And time was short - there was every chance that Velicity had already been visited by Aggrapella's stooges.
To make matters worse, Brianna had only been to Montesham a couple of times and then only briefly. She probably knew the streets of Varma better than those of her local capital and memories of the great city of the empire were pretty sketchy, especially given how quickly she left it last time she was there.
And now someone was following her, she was certain of it. She'd been on the road for most of the day and was skirting the eastern side of Montesham so she could approach the city by Beggars Gate rather than the more direct road from the south, which she expected to be watched more closely. She'd first noticed her pursuer when she'd stopped for lunch - Donald was most particular when it came to his schedule.
It was as she raised the nosebag containing the special food Honest John insisted was the only thing the mule would eat that she spotted the figure on horseback, barely visible in the distance. She realised he'd been following her for some time, like an itch that you only notice after it's been bothering you all afternoon.
Once she'd climbed again onto Donald's bony back, she made a point of surreptitiously checking behind her whenever the topography allowed. And there he was, following at the same distance - always keeping her within sight but never getting close enough to cause alarm, or so he presumably thought.
So it was, as evening closed in around her, that Brianna entered Furwood Forest. She knew this because of the sign by the side of the road, not due to any obvious increase in the density of trees. As Donald shambled along, however, the trees became copses, then holts (with an occasional hanger for added excitement) and, finally, the sort of landscape equivalent of the old soldier in the corner of a pub, drinking cheap ale and reminiscing of the days when he was a proud foot-soldier in the vanguard of some blood-thirsty general. In other words, this was a forest that would only describe itself as such if it never thought you'd actually turn up to check.
And it was as she was looking behind to check where her follower was that she was attacked.
"Grab her!"
Brianna snapped around, her hand dropping to her sword hilt. Where had they come from? Half a dozen thugs led by a man she knew had been her pursuer. In a flash, she realised. They'd always intended to ambush her here, his job had been to make sure she arrived.
She swept her sword out and sliced the air with it. A man with a club and a face like the inside of a Victoria Sponge lunged for her, then fell back, crying out with pain, blood running down his arm where Brianna had slashed at it.
"Idiots!" called the leader, his shrill voice echoing back from the trees that surrounded them. "Rush her!"
It was hopeless. Brianna turned to face her attackers, but they'd surrounded her and she waited for one to either grab her, or stab her. She spun on the spot and stabbed outwards. Her attacker shrieked and dropped like a stone. Brianna stared at the point of her sword, wondering where it had acquired such deadly bite, and then she noticed the arrow in his back.
A voice drifted out of the gathering darkness beneath the trees.
"All of you, put down your weapons. You have entered Furwood Forest, and you will be required to pay a toll if you wish to leave it alive."
"Attack!" the leader bellowed, while stepping backwards himself
Several of his men moved towards Brianna. Arrows flew and two fell. The others dropped their weapons. The only sound was of the birds settling down for the night, and the groaning of the wounded.
"And you," the voice said.
The leader glared first at his men and then into the dark forest. He let his sword drop with a clang to the cobbled road.
A torch was lit between the trees and moved towards them. It was carried by a hooded man who stepped onto the road as other shadowy figures remained beneath the trees.
"Welcome to Furwood Forest," said the figure, his face shaded by the hood, "I am called Robbing Hood and these are my faintly amused men." He waved his hand at the trees.
Robbing looked up and drew his hood back. "Bollocks" he said, as he caught sight of Brianna.
"Chortley!"
"Fitzmichael!" spat the leader of the thugs.
Chortley recovered his composure first. "Sebastian De Grey," he said, "how lovely to meet you again and, this time, I'm not under orders to spare your good looks."
Chapter 13
GRAMMA SAT WITH A HALF pint of stocky and sighed. She wasn't one of the world's great fagglers, being the sort of person who, when given clear directions, can be relied upon to follow through on a task. Repeatedly, in all likelihood. And to remind all and sundry over the following years that she did, indeed, do it.
But, when it came to deciding what to do for herself, in the absence of any immediate danger, she was at a loss. The best plan she could come up with was to head south, in the vague direction of Upper Bottom, hoping that she would bump into Mother Hemlock before the agents of the new countess bumped into her. Confident though she was in her ability to handle anything she came across, she was less certain she'd be able to see or hear it in time, and Badger's hearing wasn't that much better. They made good companions because neither knew when the other was insulting them.
And so, much to the dog's disgust, the piss-artist formerly known as Stinky Willy Clitheroe was accompanying them. While this certainly made the old girl feel a little safer since Clitheroe was both sharp of hearing and built like a brick out-house, it had meant their journey south had meandered from one drinking establishment to the next. Mind you, he'd nearl
y bolted when they passed that tree with the hand-less corpse hanging from it. And the Fitzmichael mark burned into its slowly revolving face.
The old woman scanned the bar. There he was, silly old fool. She knew what he was doing. It'd be the old war story about the gambling den in Mubrum, she could tell from the way his hands were waving about as he retold and embellished that particular adventure from his undistinguished military career. She realised he might be attracting attention to them, but she also knew that there was no point trying to stop him and, after all, while the pub's regulars were transfixed by his narration (or trying desperately not to make eye contact), she remained unnoticed. A little old lady with a mangy dog. Probably a beggar.
At least the stocky wasn't too bad. The deep brown ale was a speciality of the mountains she'd lived in all her life. Smooth, with a velvet head, she downed another swig and sighed.
"Out with your fancy man, then?" whispered a voice in Gramma's ear.
Badger yelped as a mouthful of beer landed on his back. The old woman coughed, wiping her face with her arm as she turned around.
"That were not nice, Jessie 'emlock, scarin' a lickle old lady what were only 'aving a lickle drink after a long day on her legs."
The Hemlock nose emerged from the shadows, as the Hemlock eyes flashed blue. "Well, I ain't sure it's wise to let your boyfriend go tellin' too many stories or folk might start to think there's more to you than just some tramp and her mutt."
"Right, Jessie 'emlock. Firstly, that Stinky Willy, he ain't my boyfriend, nor my fancy man neither. And nextly, I might be a lickle the worse for wear, but I ain't no tramp."
Badger, who'd been offended by being described as a mutt, found himself even more offended by the fact that Gramma hadn't objected to the description. He went back to licking the beer off his back.
"You need to stop 'im, you daft bat. It looks to me as though he's describing how he's seen trees move and pretty soon he'll be pointing in your direction."
Gramma spun back round to the bar just as Willy spread his arms as if impersonating an oak tree. She leapt to her feet, winced as her vertebrae caught up, and scampered across the sticky floor before grabbing Stinky Willy by the shoulder.
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