The Wings of Ruksh

by Anne Forbes

  “Amgarad,” she cried in anguish. “Amgarad!”

  Sephia landed on a flat rock beside a rushing stream that ran black between banks piled high with snow. Clara, tears streaming down her cheeks, was totally grief-stricken. Was Amgarad dead, she wondered, or could her magic cloak melt the ice that held his feathers so stiff and unbending?

  Above her, she could hear the witches shrieking but the snow was so thick that she could see nothing. If only she could find Lord Rothlan, she was sure he would be able to bring Amgarad back to life. But how much time did she have?

  “Oh, Amgarad,” she cried, pressing her cheek against his head, “we must save you.”

  “Hurry Clara,” Sephia whinnied, tossing her head warningly as the witches came closer and fear clutched at Clara’s heart as she looked up and scanned the whirling snowflakes. She knew that to save Amgarad she had to get him back to Lady Ellan.

  “Fly Sephia,” she whispered urgently.

  They were only in the air for a few minutes before the witches appeared. Even as Sephia soared upwards they screamed down out of the blizzard and fear ran through her as she felt their hexes bouncing off her cloak.

  “Look out, Clara!” Sephia shrilled the warning as one of the witches swooped and tried to use her broomstick as a battering ram. Clara ducked just in time but felt the touch of the witch’s cloak as she screamed past and then saw that a second witch was zooming in on her. Desperately, she wedged Amgarad’s frozen body between the high pommels of Sephia’s saddle. There were so many witches and she was helpless to save herself.

  “Go to Lady Ellan, Sephia,” she screamed as the witch’s broomstick hit her hard in the back and knocked her out of the saddle.

  Cloak billowing behind her, she felt herself falling through the air but did not have time to feel frightened as a snow witch, with a cry of triumph, looped swiftly underneath her and caught her firmly. Suddenly the air seemed full of snow witches, all shrieking victoriously.

  Clara automatically grasped the handle of the broomstick to keep her balance and stared around fearfully. No snow fell on her and she gasped with amazement as she realized that the witches travelled in a bubble of clear air. It was the first time that she had been close to them and she gasped at how beautiful they were. Bracing herself, she turned to look at the witch that sat behind her and immediately wished that she hadn’t; for the beautiful face set in its frame of glittering, silver ribbons, had eyes of stone.

  Clara felt sick at the sight of her and turning round quickly, gripped the broomstick tightly in trembling hands.

  Where are they taking me, she wondered fearfully, for the witches were no longer careering haphazardly round the sky. They were flying in a straight line and had, it seemed, a definite destination. She began to wonder if they might be taking her back to their lair when, through the snow, she saw they were heading for the massive, rocky peaks of a high mountain and, as they drew closer, saw the dark mouth of a cave, set in a sheer cliff.

  Kitor watched the witches approach and his eyes gleamed as he saw their captive. But had they caught the right child? He shifted on his claws and fluttered to the edge of the cave to receive the witches. They had done well, he thought, fluffing his feathers. His master was going to be very pleased indeed.

  The cave was no more than a hole in the cliff. It was so small that Clara could just stand up in it without bumping her head on its rocky ceiling.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” invited the black crow, who had told her his name was Kitor.

  Clara drew her cloak around her and cleared stones and loose bits of rock to one side so that she could lean against the side of the cave. The dazzlingly beautiful witches in their robes of flowing gauze had dumped her unceremoniously at the edge of the cave and, given the drop to the valley below, she had been quick to scramble inside. Kitor had bowed and scraped before the witches and she’d watched them leave with mixed feelings. What was going to happen to her now?

  Not a lot, seemed to be the answer to that question. The cave was small, stony and cold and, apart from Kitor, contained nothing. Clara was glad of her cloak, for its warmth gave her comfort. She sat huddled in its soft folds and worried. She worried about Amgarad and Sephia and hoped they had made it back to the others. And had Lord Rothlan returned? Would he be able to save Amgarad? Her mind went round and round in circles until, worn out by worry, exhaustion and the excitement of the past hours, the magic of the cloak overcame her fears. She found her eyes closing and, despite the hardness of the floor, curled herself into a ball and fell fast asleep.

  28. The Storm Carriers

  The problem was, thought Lord Rothlan, that there were just too many witches. The more witches he hexed, the more they seemed to multiply until the air around him whirled with as many witches as there were snowflakes. Glancing across the sky, he could see that both Hamish and Jaikie were up against much the same thing and although witches were falling out of the sky around them, there were always more to take their place. Grimly, he pulled on his horse’s reins to keep close to them as it would be madness to let themselves be separated. The only thing that gave him comfort was that his tactics were working and he was steadily drawing the witches away from Lady Ellan, giving her time to travel deeper into the mountains.

  Desperately, he kept the witches’ attention so that they wouldn’t give up for they must be able to see that their spells were having little effect and, indeed, their hexes were bouncing all over the sky. And where was Amgarad? He kept hoping to catch a glimpse of him but the snow and the witches made it difficult to see anything.

  It was then that the Queen of the Witches soared into view. Her beauty took his breath away. Never had he seen a more beautiful woman. Unafraid of his hexes, she sailed close to him and held her broomstick in the air by his side. Dimly he was conscious that Jaikie and Hamish had brought their horses up close and were flying just behind him.

  “It would grieve me to have to kill you, Lord Rothlan,” the witch said in a voice of dulcet clarity, “and pity, indeed, to destroy the fine horses with which you ride the heavens. Surrender to me and you will come to no harm, neither you nor your friends. This I promise you!”

  “Never!” Rothlan’s answer was sharp and clear and, seeing the determination on his face, she swung swiftly out of the way, her face dark with anger.

  In a ringing voice she called out in the language of the witches and, immediately, they grouped themselves in threes and fours and joined their spells together. And they aimed for the horses.

  Rothlan felt Rasta jerk with a whinny of pain as the hexes hit like bolts of fire. As the pain took its breath away, the horse lost height and shrieks of pain from the other two horses told Rothlan that they had also been hit. Jaikie’s horse screamed in agony and one of its wings fell useless to its side as a hex broke it. Jaikie clung to the horse in horror and Rothlan’s eyes burned with rage as he watched its feeble struggles. It might make it to the ground, he thought, as it was using its remaining wing to stop it from plummeting like a stone to its death. Knowing that if the witches kept up their terrible assault, the horses would freeze in mid-air and fall to the valley floor far beneath, Rothlan called up a powerful spell; a spell that he had cast only once before. Such was the power of the jagged flash of light that streaked through the blizzard that the triumphant witches were caught by surprise and clung to their broomsticks as they were tossed in the air like feathers.

  The result was immediate and dramatic. The storm carriers arrived in a deafening rumble of thunder that shook the mountains to their very roots. Lightning streaked through clouds that swirled black as the night and the witches, so long the feared mistresses of the air, looked at them in petrified wonder. The storm carriers took in the situation at a glance as they strode the heavens. Their brightly-coloured turbans framed dark, bearded faces that contorted with anger as they saw the injured horses from the stables of Ruksh screaming in pain as they struggled to stay in the sky.

  Now fully aware of their danger, the
snow witches turned tail and raced for safety with the storm carriers in hot pursuit. The coloured silks of their robes swirled as they swept across the heavens and their bearded faces were cruel and merciless as they reached out their great hands and crushed the witches like matchsticks.

  The horses themselves called for help and one of the storm carriers, his bearded face dark with anger at the broken wings of the horses of Ruksh, swept them in his mighty arms and in an instant, his magic made them whole again.

  Deep in a magic sleep, the deafening noise of the storm barely penetrated Clara’s dreams but Kitor watched in trembling awe as the storm carriers, in their gaudily-coloured turbans and robes, swept the sky and wiped it clean of snow witches.

  “Master,” he whispered to Prince Kalman as the light of the crystal shone on him, “Lord Rothlan summoned the storm carriers and they came on the wings of the wind. Their thunder and lightning shook the mountain to its core.”

  “The storm carriers,” muttered the prince’s voice. “The witches are not powerful enough to stand against them but,” he dismissed them casually, “their fate does not matter now. They captured the girl-child you spoke of and have served their purpose. But what of your captive, Kitor? Did she not try to call the storm carriers to her aid?”

  “Master, she is asleep and her sleep is so deep that she barely stirred.”

  “Are you sure that she is the one who called out when they left Arthur’s Seat?”

  “I am, Master.”

  “Then keep her safe! As long as she is with you, I need fear nothing!”

  Clara woke hours later when it was still dark. At first she didn’t know where she was as even though her cloak had tried its best to cushion her from the hard ground, she was stiff, rumpled and totally disorientated. Feeling the rock of the cave beneath her, she remembered the horrors of the previous day and terror thrilled through her.

  It all came back to her — the cave, Kitor the crow and the sheer drop outside that plunged the whole depth of the mountain! She froze in horror at the thought that she might have turned in her sleep and perhaps rolled towards it but, as her eyes became accustomed to the dark, she saw the round opening of the cave entrance and the stars blazing in the blackness of the heavens. The storm seemed to have passed over and the night was clear.

  Dimly, she saw the shape of the crow perched on a spur of rock near the entrance to the cave. “Kitor,” she whispered, “are you awake?”

  Kitor woke at the sound of her voice and straightened up. A quick glance outside told him that daylight was still hours away. “It’s still dark,” he muttered. “Why don’t you go back to sleep?”

  “I’ve slept enough,” Clara replied, “and I want to know what happened yesterday. It’s stopped snowing and the sky is clear now. Where are the snow witches?”

  “They have gone.”

  “Lord Rothlan killed them?” Clara asked hopefully.

  Kitor smiled sourly. “He conjured up the storm carriers.”

  “The storm carriers!” said Clara, sitting up straight.

  “You know them?” Kitor was impressed, despite himself.

  Clara nodded. “They tried to catch me once but I was on a magic carpet and I escaped. Please, Kitor, tell me what you saw. You must have seen everything from here. What happened to the flying horses?”

  “The snow witches hexed them and broke their wings. If Lord Rothlan hadn’t called up the storm carriers, the witches would have finished him off, too.”

  “But he got away? Tell me, Kitor,” she pleaded as he shook his head. “Please tell me! I’m your prisoner and I can’t escape!”

  Kitor looked at her doubtfully and shifted on his claws. His master had given him no instructions and surely there was no harm in telling her what he knew. She was a pretty child and there were tears in her eyes.

  Clara saw his hestitation and smiled coaxingly. “Please, Kitor. What difference will it make?”

  “The storm carriers saved the flying horses and took them away over the mountains. Tell me,” he asked interestedly, “are they from the stables in Turkey called Ruksh?”

  Clara nodded. “Yes, the Sultan gave us the best horses in his stables.”

  Kitor froze. “The Sultan! The Sultan of Turkey!” he said in a strange voice. “Sulaiman the Red? He was here? In Scotland?”

  “Yes,” Clara said, wishing she hadn’t mentioned him.

  “The Sultan of Turkey,” breathed Kitor. “That explains a lot!” And he sat quite still on the spur of rock, his brain working busily as the implications of her words seethed through his mind. “He’s come for his crown, hasn’t he?” he said, looking at her in awe. “No wonder the prince wants you all dead!”

  Clara didn’t answer. She bit her lip and drew her cloak around her with trembling hands. She was sure that someone would come and save her but couldn’t imagine how they would find her in this small cave in the midst of the mountains.

  29. The Thunderbolt

  Half-way through the morning, it started to snow again. The wind seemed to have changed direction so that the white flakes blew into the cave and layered its floor. Nothing else happened all day. Clara watched the storm and wondered why she didn’t feel at all hungry. Indeed, she felt quite full. Maybe, she thought, it was part of the Sultan’s magic and despite herself she was comforted. But although she told herself that someone would save her and all she really had to do was wait, she knew that while she was in the cave, she was Kalman’s prisoner and at his mercy.

  Kitor, meanwhile, sat like a statue on his spur of rock, waiting for another message from his master. The storm grew fiercer and he occasionally flapped his wings to get rid of the snow that continually drifted in and draped him in a white cloak. By evening, he was shivering pathetically and could barely stand on his perch.

  Clara eyed him anxiously from time to time. “Kitor,” she asked, “does the prince know I’m here?”

  “Yes, he knows that the witches brought you. I spoke to him last night while you were asleep.”

  “Why did he only bring me here? Why not the others?”

  “Well, the others don’t matter, do they?” Kitor looked at her in surprise. “He knows that you are the one chosen to steal the crown.”

  “But … how can he possibly know that?”

  Kitor looked pleased with himself. “Because I was there when you left the hill and I heard you. I heard you say that you would bring back the crown!”

  Relief surged through Clara. So the prince didn’t know that Neil also knew the magic words! “So … so that’s why he’s keeping me here?”

  “As long as you are here, Clara,” the crow pointed out, “the crown is safe.”

  Clara closed her eyes and felt real fear trickle through her. Her voice was shaky as she spoke. “Don’t you know your master, Kitor?” she said urgently. “Don’t you know him? The crown will only be safe when I am dead! He will leave me here to freeze or starve! Perhaps both of us!”

  “The prince will not leave me here to die!” Kitor said defiantly. “I have worked well for him. He is pleased with me!” And he turned his back on her sulkily and refused to say another word.

  Time dragged on until it was dark and still the wind blew and the snow fell. Clara was not cold as her cloak kept her warm but she felt very lonely and thought longingly of home and her mother.

  She had, briefly, thought of attacking Kitor but had quickly given up the idea. He was the enemy, she knew, but he had wings and was her only contact with the outside world. If only she could persuade him to take a message to Lord Rothlan or Lady Ellan! Although her cloak kept her warm, she knew the bird in front of her was starving and half-frozen with the cold, yet he kept grimly to his perch and, as the day dragged miserably on, she found herself admiring him.

  “Kitor,” she said, as he jerked yet another layer of snow from his wings, “Kitor, why do you sit on that spur of rock? The wind blows directly over it. Come back here where it is more sheltered.”

  “I must stay here in case
the master uses his crystal to speak to me,” Kitor answered, his voice chittering with the cold.

  Clara had a fair idea of how crystals worked and frowned over the crow’s words. “But Kitor, he can only see us in his crystal when it’s daylight. It’s quite dark now. When he wants to talk to you, the light will shine and it will only take you a few seconds to perch on the rock. Surely the prince will understand?”

  “Prince Kalman expects to be obeyed at all times,” the crow said. “His anger is terrible even if he is disobeyed in little things.”

  “Oh?” Clara asked idly. The conversation helped to pass the time and Kitor had hardly spoken to her all day.

  “He sends thunderbolts through the air to kill people who disobey him.”

  Clara hurriedly wrapped her cloak tightly round her. If Prince Kalman was in the habit of throwing thunderbolts then she devoutly hoped the magic in her cloak would protect her.

  Perhaps it was the bitter cold or his growing fear that the prince might indeed leave him to die, that loosened Kitor’s tongue. Clara watched apprehensively as the crow’s eyes suddenly glazed with tears. They rolled down his face and froze like pearls before dropping into the snow. “Thunderbolts are terrible things! I … I had a friend,” he said sadly, “who angered him and he sent a thunderbolt to kill her. She was called Cassia and I … well, I was fond of her.”