by Garth Nix
“I try to look the part,” said the Patchwork King, causing Paul to try to blank out his thoughts. He didn’t like the idea of anyone being able to see into his mind.
“Now,” said the King, ignoring Paul’s attempts to think of nothing (which weren’t working anyway). “Put the ingredients in the crucible.”
He held out the pot, holding it by the very end of its two-meter handle, so Paul didn’t have to get too close to the fire-pit.
“You mean the Elementals’ gifts?” asked Paul, looking at the fire. “You don’t mean to melt them?”
“I will forge them into a spell to give the Ragwitch life,” said the Patchwork King. “And beat the spell into a weapon to take that life away.”
“I don’t understand,” said Paul, clutching his precious pouch to his chest. “What do you mean—give her life? And why do you need my gifts?”
The Patchwork King sighed and pulled the crucible back and put it upright so he could lean on it like a staff. He seemed more irritable as a dwarf.
“Questions, questions, questions. No one ever just comes for a spell. They always want conversation as well.”
“But I have to know if I’m doing the right thing!” exclaimed Paul. “I have to know!”
“All right! Don’t get so excited. I have to make a spell to give the Ragwitch life, to get Her out of that indestructible form and into a human one. Then She can be slain—or banished back into the Nameless Realm, because you can’t really kill an essence of evil. But She’ll be as good as dead. And I need the gifts the Elementals gave you because they are the Breath, the Blood, the Spirit and the Body—they are true life. Now, can I begin?”
“Yes,” whispered Paul. The Patchwork King swung the crucible back again, and Paul dropped the gifts in—one by one. The feather that was the Breath, the tear-drop of the Blood, the jewel of the Spirit, and last of all, the root-figure of the Body.
“Yes,” whispered Paul again, almost to himself, as the Patchwork King swung the crucible into the flame. “Begin…”
Paul didn’t know how long he was in the forge with the Patchwork King. Time seemed to slip by strangely, and he fell into a sort of half-dream, where he was somewhere else, and people bent over him, and held a cup to his lips. Once he thought he heard Quigin, and a dog licked him on the nose.
Later, the forge swam into his vision again, and he woke to see the dwarf-figure of the King pouring a molten bar, and hammering, his hammer bouncing from the anvil onto the hot metal. Then he faded away again, into blackness, and true sleep.
Finally, Paul awoke to silence, and sunlight streaming through the windows of the kitchen. The kettle was just whistling, and there was a box of cornflakes and a carton of milk on the table. The Patchwork King was standing by the stove holding a silver coffeepot. He was back to normal size, though possibly taller and thinner than he had been at first, and he seemed middle-aged.
“Help yourself to breakfast,” he said, pouring hot water into the coffeepot. “Your guide will be here soon.”
“Thanks,” said Paul sleepily, straightening up. He seemed to have slept sprawled across the kitchen table, but he didn’t feel stiff and sore. He reached across for the cornflakes, then woke up properly, and asked, “Have you finished?”
“Yes,” replied the Patchwork King gravely. He put down the pot, reached into the air, and slowly pulled a long, slender spear out from nowhere. It was almost two meters long, and at first seemed entirely made of steel, but it changed color as it moved—and Paul saw within it flashes of fire, and scudding clouds, the blue-black of the deepest sea, and the mottled browns of the earth.
The Patchwork King handed it to him, and Paul realized it wasn’t a spear. It was a giant needle, complete with the hole at the end for thread.
“What better instrument to unpick a rag doll,” said the Patchwork King distantly. “Woven with the Wild Magic that once cast Her out and made Her assume that form.”
“What do I…what do I do with it?” asked Paul, as he ran his hand down its length, feeling the alternate currents in it, hot and cold, like fire and water, earth and air.
“It is a weapon, Paul,” said the Patchwork King. “Use it like the spear you thought it was.”
Paul looked back at the needle-spear, and shuddered as he thought of closing with the Ragwitch, of only being as far away as its slender length. And how would he get that close in the first place?
He was thinking about that when there was a knock on the kitchen door, and the King went to open it, saying, “That will be your guide, Paul. No time for breakfast.”
He opened the door, and Paul looked up to see an old woman, tall and slender, with long silver hair. She smiled at him, and the sunlight caught her clear green eyes.
“I am Inyla,” she said in a kindly voice that reminded Paul of his grandmother’s. “I have come to take you back to Alnwere.”
Paul looked down from her eyes, and gripped the needle-spear in both hands. For a second he thought “perhaps it’s not too late. I could still get a spell to take us home…” then he realized it was too late. The needle-spear was in his hands, and he had to use it.
Suddenly, he thought of Julia, and what killing the Ragwitch meant for her. Paul realized he hadn’t actually asked the Patchwork King what would happen.
“What about…” he started to say, but when he looked up, the Patchwork King was gone. There was only the old lady, waiting.
“Yes?” she said.
“Oh…nothing,” replied Paul, looking around, his forehead creased in troubled thought. “I guess it’ll be O.K….”
He stood up, and walked around the table to Inyla. She put out her hand, and he took it unhesitatingly, not minding that it made him feel five years old again. Five years old and safe.
“How do we get back?” he asked.
“Just close your eyes,” answered Inyla. “Just close your eyes…and sleep…”
24
The Last Battle
IT’S GETTING WORSE,” gasped Julia, as they came to a break in the song, and the flame played its harpnotes without them. She shivered as a fresh gust of wind blew across, carrying with it tiny flakes of ice.
All around them, black volcanic glass slowly solidified into the crater-rim shape of the Terraces surrounding the Ragwitch’s Spire. It too, was becoming real, a dark silhouette looming up through the winter sleet. Despite all their efforts, they were being dragged back to it—to one of Her most deadly memories: a gathering at the Spire.
The Gwarulch were there already, still only whispers of reality that couldn’t quite be seen. But they were inexorably becoming solid, and the first hints of their awful howling had started to drift past the protective ring of holly—joining with the sleet-carrying wind to penetrate their haven.
“Can you do anything?” Mirran asked Lyssa, as all four instinctively drew closer together to gain a little heat from the waning flame.
“We can do what we always planned,” replied Lyssa. “Move into Her central mind, and seize control of Her body. But that would only last a few moments, and utterly exhaust us…we must not waste the opportunity.”
“We may not get any opportunity if we wait too long,” said Mirran grimly. “Will the Gwarulch be able to breach the ring of holly?”
“When we are fully in that memory—yes,” interrupted Anhyvar, indicating the windswept, terraces around them. “But they’ll see us well before then. They’ll seem half-real to us, and we’ll seem half-real to them.”
“And half-real is enough to slay us,” said Mirran. “I think you had better begin your spells, Anhyvar, Lyssa…we must hope we can do something in the few moments we can wrest control from Her.”
“Yes,” said Anhyvar, staring out beyond the sleet-shrouded Terraces. “There is little time for anyone, now. The battle at Alnwere goes badly. Her creatures have already taken the first two turnings on the road. There is only the top bend now, and after that, the stairway to the Pool, and the fallen stones. They will make their last stand at the top bend.”
“I think you are right,” sighed Lyssa. “But I wish we could hold out a little longer, for I fear we shall strike too soon.”
“We must do as we must,” said Anhyvar. “Julia, you and Mirran must keep singing…and deal with any Gwarulch that may break the ring. Lyssa and I will prepare the way to Her central mind, and we shall be helpless till that is done.”
“What…what will happen then?” asked Julia.
“We will be in Her mind, as when you are called to Her. But this time, all four of us will be there, and we shall seize control of Her body—for however long we may.”
“But what will we do?” asked Julia again. “I mean, what can we do?”
No one answered her, save the Gwarulch, whose ghostly howls faintly overlaid the harping of the flame, and the whining of the wind. Then Anhyvar said, “I do not know. Perhaps we can make Her jump from the hill…though that may do little. But we shall try…”
Julia looked up at the Witch, and saw the lines of her face set in grim determination, framed by her wildly blowing hair. That look was mirrored in Lyssa’s face, and Mirran’s too—and Julia realized that her own jaw was clamped, and her forehead wrinkled, just like the others. Whatever happened, they would try…
“Before we begin,” Lyssa said quietly. “Let me give all of you the gift I promised: the chance of a true death, if we should fail.”
She held out a clenched fist, and the others crowded around to stop the wind from blowing away whatever might be inside.
“Take one each,” said Lyssa, opening her hand to reveal four shrunken white-green leaves. “Put them on the inside of your wrist.”
She took one herself, and showed them how. The leaf stuck there for a moment, then slowly dissolved, leaving only a faint skeleton tracery of itself, etched into the skin, and a bitter, mint-like smell which filled the air.
Without hesitation, the others pressed the leaves to their wrists. It was like an ice-cube, thought Julia, and then like a fingertip tracing lines upon her skin.
“Now,” said Lyssa, with the hint of a smile, “you are my blood-sisters…and brother. Even as She cannot absorb me, so She cannot absorb you.”
“Thank you, my lady,” said Mirran bowing deeply. “As one who was a prisoner in Her mind for many centuries, not even knowing who I was, I know the worth of this gift.”
Anhyvar said nothing, but kissed Lyssa on both cheeks, and hugged her close. Julia started to say something, but the words choked in her mouth, so she kissed Lyssa too, and hugged her as tightly as she dared, wincing with the pain from her ribs.
“Now,” cried Lyssa. “To the end of the Ragwitch!”
“Now,” said Inyla. “Wake up!”
Paul awoke with a guilty start, as if he’d been caught sleeping in class. But he stood in the open, his hair buffeted by a strong wind, and the sun was harsh on his face. Inyla was at his side, and he saw that they were on top of a hill, standing in some sort of sunken pool dug into the top, the stones cracked and dry from the long absence of water.
Huge grey stones lay fallen all around—not unlike the Angarling, save for their color and stillness. Between them grew gnarled, bent-over trees, all leaning the same way as if blown by a great wind. Not very far away, Paul could hear the now-familiar sound of fighting—people fighting the Ragwitch’s foul creatures.
“There isn’t much time,” said Inyla. She pointed at the beginnings of a path leading down from the hilltop. “Take the path, Paul…and run!”
As she spoke, she seemed to shrink and draw back from him, and her hand slipped from his grasp. Paul reached for her, but she pointed away, and her body shrank and disappeared into one of the bent-over trees. Still, he heard her voice shivering in the air, “Run!”
Paul only hesitated for a second, then holding the needle-spear above him, he leapt up out of the pool and onto the path. In another second, he was out past the stones and trees, and running, running down the twisting path, towards the sounds of battle.
He saw that down below, the path joined a road cut into the hillside, a broad road, easily wide enough for three or four cars. It went down at an easy slope for several hundred meters, then cut back on itself, forming a hairpin bend, going another few hundred meters before turning back on itself again and zigzagging down the hill.
There were three such bends, Paul saw, before the road finally leveled out into the valley beyond—and all the fighting was at the third, and topmost bend. A wall of pikemen held back a shrieking mass of Gwarulch and Glazed-Folk—a thin human wall against a seemingly endless column of Her creatures winding up the road. But they seemed to be stopping them, and Paul realized that the road was cut away in front of the pike-wall, leaving a gap too wide for the crushing Angarling to cross. But the Gwarulch and Glazed-Folk would soon fill it with their dead, and then the pike-wall would be forced back by sheer weight of numbers—and the unstoppable Angarling.
Higher up the road, there were more human soldiers, waiting their turn in line, or helping the wounded back from the front. Archers watched the skies, but they fired few arrows, and Paul realized they must have almost run out, for the Meepers were flying closer and closer, without their normal fear.
Then he saw the Ragwitch, looming up out of the massed ranks of Her creatures, a good hundred meters behind the fighting, with a ring of Angarling close around Her. As Paul watched, an arrow sped towards Her, only to falter in midair, and twist into the hillside.
It was an unlucky arrow, for it narrowly missed a Meeper, who pulled up to avoid being shot. Even at a distance, Paul saw that its sudden climb would make it look straight up at him. A second later, he knew it had, for it beat its great wings in sudden energy, and came straight up at him. A boy alone was the sort of target Meepers liked.
Paul stopped looking, and started to run in earnest, keeping the needle-spear at the ready, alert for a shadow leaping across him from below. But the path suddenly turned into steps, and Paul came to them too quickly and almost fell. As he recovered, sharp claws whisked over his head, and a Meeper careened into the hillside. Before it could recover, a startled soldier leapt up from the steps and drove his sword into its leathery neck. It gurgled, tried to snap at him, then fell farther down the hill.
The soldier almost fell too, but Paul grabbed him, carefully avoiding the blood-soaked bandage around his thigh.
“Where did you come from?” gasped the soldier, as he dragged himself back upright again, grimacing at the pain in his leg.
“The top,” said Paul, pointing as he dashed past. “I have to find Aleyne.”
“Who?” shouted the soldier after him, but Paul didn’t pause. There were other wounded on the steps, and he was busy avoiding them, and their startled cries and questions.
At the bottom, there were just too many wounded lying around for him to run, and as he slowed, Paul saw that there was a wide cavern under the steps, and there were the healers and surgeons trying to save the wounded as they had at Reddow Cairn. Archers stood guard at the entrance, one firing at a Meeper as it swung too close.
And there was Quigin, leading Hathin up the road, with an injured soldier across the donkey’s back. He was holding a bandage to the soldier’s side, his sandy head bent as the donkey picked its own way through the rows of wounded soldiers lying on the road.
“Quigin!” exclaimed Paul, leaping over to him. “You’re alive!”
“Of course I’m alive!” exclaimed Quigin, but his smile lacked its usual unconcern. “You’re the one who was hit on the head! It’s lucky you’re up—you can help me…”
“No…no, I can’t,” said Paul hastily. He held up the needle-spear so its strange patterns glittered and swirled in the sun. “I can’t explain now—but I can…I can stop the Ragwitch…but first I have to find Aleyne.”
“He’s somewhere down there,” replied Quigin. “I saw him with the King, just before we retreated from the Second Bend. Leasel can find him…Leasel!”
Both boys looked around, then Paul felt a head butt at hi
s leg, and Leasel was there, her nose twitching. She looked up at Paul, then turned around and started down the road at an easy lope.
“Where is she…” Quigin started to say, but Paul was already following her, and the wounded man was slipping from the donkey. Quigin hastened to help him, instantly forgetting everything else.
Paul ran for a hundred meters or so, then slowed again, as Leasel wound her way through the ranks of silent, grim-faced soldiers—men and women who knew this was the last battle of the Kingdom, and that they had already lost…all they could hope for would be to take some of Her creatures with them, and to die a true death.
Here and there were soldiers who had marched with Paul from Caer Follyn, and he grabbed them as he passed, and asked for Aleyne, but ran on after Leasel before they could answer. In any case, they shouted after him, and it was always “farther down!”—farther down, towards the fighting.
Then Paul ducked under a pikeman’s arm, and out to where the road started its bend down and around, to the pike-wall and the swirling melee. He’d thought the noise of battle at Reddow Cairn had been terrifying, but here, closer still, all the clashes and shouts and howls and screams shook him from his knees up through his stomach.
But there, under the firmly planted standard waving golden in the sun, was Aleyne—Aleyne shouting, pointing pikemen in to plug a gap, as the wounded spilled out from the swirling mass.
Paul rushed to him, and grabbed his arm. For a second Aleyne stared at him, as if he didn’t recognize him, or just couldn’t see, then he knelt at his side.
“Paul,” he shouted, close to his ear. “What are you doing here? There’s still a chance you can escape…”
Paul shook his head, and held up the needle-spear. “I found out what the Elementals’ gifts were for. This can kill the Ragwitch.”
Aleyne stared again, and Paul saw the tremendous weariness in his eyes. At the same time, he felt the strength in him, and he held out the needle-spear.
“Take it,” he said, suddenly sure that Aleyne would use it better than he ever could. He didn’t really feel strong enough to stick it in anyone, let alone the Ragwitch…