by Dan Davis
Archer pushed his way through the remaining people and went back to the inn. It was also full of people and noisy. Keeper did not seem to be anywhere.
‘Oit, you. Where’s Keeper?’ Weaver asked the innkeeper.
Archer apologised. ‘What she means is, have you seen our friend Keeper? The one with the red eyes.’
‘The lad left a while ago,’ the innkeeper said. ‘Took some food with him. Looked like he’d been crying, poor lamb. I asked him where he was going, it being late in the afternoon now and I was worried about him getting caught because, you know, with the best will in the world, and he seems like a nice lad and all but you can tell he ain’t the sharpest tool in the...’
‘Where was he going?’ Archer snapped.
The innkeeper looked hurt. ‘Said he had to get home. Said it weren’t far so I let him go. Did I do wrong?’
‘Home?’ Weaver said, slapping her head. ‘He ain’t even got no home. He ain’t even got no adopted home because them soldiers burnt it down.’
Archer shook his head. ‘Keeper thinks his home is being with Burp.’
‘He’s gone to rescue the dragon? By himself?’ Winstanley said. ‘He will only get himself killed.’
‘Keeper?’ Weaver said, scoffing. ‘He ain’t the rescuing type.’
‘You’re right. He knows they’re taking Burp to the Tower,’ Archer said, feeling the truth of his words as he spoke them. ‘Keeper can’t stand being away from Burp. This whole time since we rescued him it’s all he thinks about. So he’s gone to be with him. He’s gone to give himself up.’
‘I think it likely they’ll just kill him,’ Winstanley said.
‘Yes,’ Archer said.
Weaver sighed. ‘Archer, I need to rest. You’re exhausted, too. We need to recover our strength before we can use our powers again.’
‘You can do what you want,’ he said to her but his head was swimming. ‘I’m going to stop him.’
‘In the morning,’ Weaver said, rubbing her eyes. ‘We’ll go at first light. He can’t have gotten far. He’s useless.’
A Reanimation Transmutation
The wolf leapt right past her in a silver blur and slammed into Cedd. The old man was driven onto his back with the wolf pressing its forelegs onto his chest. Cedd was stunned, barely conscious in the leaf mulch. The wolf snarled down at him with its lips curled back and quivering, breath steaming through the wet yellow teeth. The other wolves kept circling closer around them, slinking with heads held low and eyes fixed on the top wolf who snapped her jaws an inch over Cedd’s face.
‘Please,’ Writer said. ‘Do not hurt him.’
The wolf turned her head. In the wolf’s eyes, Writer recognised her as the one who had saved her from Pym. Did she also recognise Writer?
With a huff, the wolf stepped back off Cedd’s chest and faced Writer. Cedd rolled over in the leaf litter, groaning.
‘Do you know me?’ Writer asked the wolf. ‘Do you remember that you helped me before?’
The wolf turned and walked away. The others also padded off too, heading the same direction through the forest. The lead wolf stopped a little way off while the others kept walking. She looked back at Writer.
Cedd struggled to his feet, wheezing and clutching his chest. ‘Stupid wolf,’ he croaked. She helped him up. ‘It was my idea that Bede create those guardian wolves, you know.’
‘I did not,’ she said. ‘Why is she looking back at us like that?’ Writer said, almost to herself. ‘Does she want something?’
‘She does seem rather interested in you, doesn’t she,’ Cedd agreed, wincing and gingerly touching his chest.
The wolf walked a few paces toward Writer then loped away from them a few paces and stopped and looked back at her again.
‘We should follow her,’ Writer said.
‘Very well,’ Cedd said. ‘But if she comes near me again I shall hide behind you.’
The wolf led them through the trees. They hurried on as quickly as they could but even so the wolf repeatedly pulled away, loping on ahead with an effortless gait. The wolf was totally at home in the forest. Writer felt like an intruder, staggering along through the leaf litter and tripping up on roots. It may have been her imagination but the wolf seemed impatient with them.
But soon enough she led them to an enormous beech tree with a span of branches above so wide that the forest floor beneath was free from undergrowth and saplings. She recognised the tree at once as the one they had crashed into during the storm, mainly because at the base of the tree, lay the basket itself.
Bede. Or, at least, the object that had once been the Alchemist Bede. The basket was still turned on its side, with the open top part facing them. The bottom edge was half buried in leaf litter and mud where it had settled further into the ground in the months since it had fallen down from the top of the tree.
The whole pack of wolves were there waiting; standing, sitting or pacing behind and about the basket, watching her and Cedd as they trudged up to the basket.
‘What are they doing?’ Writer whispered to Cedd. ‘You don’t think they know this was Bede, do you?’
‘Of course they do,’ Cedd whispered back. ‘They are guarding their master.’
She noticed the rough edges of the basket where the wicker was sharp had collected large tufts of grey, white and black wolf fur. There was more fur inside the basket. ‘It looks as though they have been sleeping in... him,’ she said.
‘What better way to guard him than to make him your den?’ Cedd said. ‘Come on, get on with it.’
‘What should I do?’ she asked.
‘Open Bede’s Codex and find the correct spell,’ Cedd answered.
She sat on the ground, unwrapped and opened the book on her lap. It had been a long time since she had been able to look through it. The pages were satisfyingly thick and smelled like her old room in Bede’s Tower. She had a pang of strange longing for that familiar prison; what knowledge had been stored there along the shelves and chests and drawers. What riches of the mind had been lost to her when she had escaped? When she had finally come home her only link to that knowledge had been the Wicungboc and how lovingly she had read through the pages. Holding it again made her feel somewhat contented.
‘Your mind wanders often,’ Cedd said sharply, leaning toward her clicking his fingers. ‘Find the spell.’ A wolf growled at him and he dropped his arm, glaring back at the wolf.
‘How do I tell which is correct?’ she asked, showing him the pages as she flicked through. ‘This spell is in Latin but a form of Latin I am unfamiliar with. This one is Greek and I have never been very good at Greek. And many are in this strange language that I cannot make out. It seems like it wants to be English, only it makes no sense. Is it some form of secret code?’
Cedd smiled with more warmth and affection than she had seen from him but it was not she that he smiled at but the words on the page. ‘Ah yes. This is my language. The language of my people. The Old English that was spoken in these lands when I was a boy and for many a year afterwards. Over time it has become the English we speak now. This one here is a spell to lift a physical object into the air.’ He leaned over her and turned a page. ‘Another transmutation spell; it appears to reshape base metals through heating and applying force.’ Cedd turned more pages. ‘These spells were recorded by different alchemists over hundreds and even thousands of years and Bede has written them down in the language they were originally created with. You see, it is not the words themselves that have power, it is the harmonic resonances formed through the sounds you make while reciting the spell. You do not need to understand the language, only the correct pronunciation, which I can give you. It is disappointing although typical that Bede has failed to organise these in any recognisable order. Where is the spell that transformed him? And what language was it in?’
‘It is here,’ she said, flicking to that page. ‘In English with some Latin at the end.’
Cedd peered at it. ‘This appears to be one that Bede ha
s created himself. Find others in English. Bede would have written the counter spell in the same language.’
‘Counter spells, yes,’ she said. ‘I remember. All spells have their opposite. But why?’
‘There is duality in all things,’ Cedd said. ‘Alchemy recognises that in nature there are opposing forces. A true alchemist, an alchemist of the old way, seeks to maintain that balance. To do this, when we create something or bring something new into the world we must also create its opposite. And I suppose, the real reason is that we make mistakes and we like to be able to unmake them. Sadly, too few alchemists follow the old way anymore. The Lord High Alchemist Dee certainly does not.’
‘Here it is,’ she said. ‘It seems to be for turning an inanimate object into an animate man.’
‘Hurry. There’s not a moment to be lost,’ Cedd said, climbing to his feet with a groan and a sigh.
‘But I have to learn the spell,’ she said. ‘I have to say the words and perform the motions in the exactly correct fashion or I shall fail entirely. Or worse, the spell could have unintended consequences.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Cedd snapped. ‘Obviously. Just get on with it and do it properly.’ He stomped off a few steps and sank down again.
‘Leave me alone,’ she said, irritated by his tone. She read the lines over and over until she was sure she had them. The hand motions were more complicated. The movements were supposed to help with the mental concentration and ensure the correct rhythm was kept for the spoken part. Up, down, up, down, left and right. A circle. A spiral. Back and forward, left and right and circle, circle. Spirals inside spirals. All in the correct rhythm and in time with the words.
The wolves had settled down in silence to watch her while she read and made practice gestures, watching with what seemed to be disinterest. She closed the book and placed it before her on the damp ground. When she got to her feet, though, so did they. So did Cedd.
‘Are you ready now?’ he asked, impatiently.
‘Just be quiet,’ Writer said.
‘I can help you to focus your mind?’ Cedd said. ‘I may not have your natural ability but...’
‘All I need from you is silence,’ she said without looking at him. Instead she looked at the basket. She found it hard to believe that there was any latent life inside that woven, dry wood, part sunk into the mulch and mud. Beech nut cases were scattered everywhere. She looked again at the fur caught around the rim and even inside. Had they been sleeping in it? If they had been guarding it ever since the crash then the wolves believed that the wicker basket was still Bede.
She cleared her throat. ‘Return, reform, repeat. Rout, ruin, defeat. Shape, build, create. Breathe, beat, animate. Revert, converge, become. Incertisque hominum!’
Her mind focused and narrowed into a single point. The magic flowed from her mind and the cold force poured from her forehead and streamed into the basket. It filled with the blue light; a light so bright and blue that her eyes burned to look at it. She squeezed her eyes shut and threw her arm across her face. The sound of it was like a rushing wind and a roaring fire that rose into a screeching of a whistle. She ducked and covered her head as the basket exploded in a shower of dead leaves and mud and stones. Twigs and branches spattered down about her and onto her back. When it stopped, she unfurled herself and peered out. She watched Cedd climb to his feet, looking stunned and swiping bits of forest from his clothes and hat. The wolves were creeping back to the tree but still cowering low.
The basket was gone. Instead, there was the body of a man. A man lying in the blasted earth curled up in a ball. He was dressed in the same filthy long robes he had been wearing in his tower when she had cast the first spell on him.
Cedd rushed over and sunk to his knees by the body. Writer followed more slowly. Cedd put his hand on Bede’s throat, then put his ear on Bede’s chest.
Cedd sat back on his heels. He slumped and bowed his head. ‘He’s dead,’ he said, without looking up.
‘After all that?’ she said, suddenly feeling very tired. ‘Now how do we save the Vale?’
Cedd began whispering something over Bede’s body. ‘Fader of ure be eart on heofonum.’ It sounded like the language Cedd had talked about, the Old English. She did not know what he was saying but it sounded like a spell. ‘Si bin nama gehalgod.’
Bede sat up and flung an arm out. ‘Shut your caterwauling, you old fool!’ he said, his voice like a knife on metal.
Cedd jumped back, terrified. ‘I thought you were dead,’ he cried.
‘Dead?’ Bede said. ‘Dead? Why would I be dead? What are you standing there for? Help me up, you old fool.’
Cedd pulled Bede to his feet. ‘I am so very relieved to see you, dear boy.’
Bede was very tall and very thin and he towered over Cedd and Writer. ‘What in heaven’s name are we doing in the forest?’ he said. He stared at Writer. ‘I know you,’ he said, hesitantly.
‘Bede, my old friend,’ Cedd said gently. ‘This is your latest Writer. The one you had the highest hopes for. It was she who brought you back.’
‘Back?’ Bede said. ‘Back from what?’
Cedd coughed. ‘She turned you into a basket.’
Bede looked blank and then his eyes went wide. ‘Oh, yes, I remember you and the others,’ he said, nodding to himself. ‘Finally, some of my young assistants had discovered a way to my chambers. The first test had been passed. I was planning on teaching you all what you were capable of and training you towards your true purpose. But then you betrayed me. You attacked me. In my own tower. After all the riches of the mind I had showed you. You traitorous little worm!’
Writer opened her mouth to protest but Bede strode towards her and she backed away faster and faster, trying to think of a spell, when he stooped to snatch up the Wicungboc and swung it hard into her head.
She saw an explosion of stars that faded into blackness.
Keeper’s Fire
The soldiers had taken Keeper. It was a little after sunrise on a foggy, damp morning and Archer and Weaver were soaked and shivering in the dewy grass under a hedgerow.
The horsemen who had been driven from Bures the day before had scooped up Keeper sometime in the night. The twelve remaining soldiers had him tied up by their big campfire on the banks of the Sweetwater a few miles downriver from Bures. Their horses were tied to a little copse next to them.
Keeper was on his knees facing towards Archer with his wrists tied together and roped to a big log, next to a pile of firewood that was bigger than he was. His head was down and he looked beaten.
‘Can’t believe we’re doing this again,’ Weaver whispered.
‘You didn’t have to come,’ Archer whispered back. Two of the soldiers were arguing while the others looked on or sat around tending to their things.
‘As if I’d let you go get yourself killed alone,’ she said, teeth chattering. ‘This way we can get killed together.’
‘Quiet,’ Archer said. ‘I need to hear what they’re saying.’ The wind blew their voices towards Archer’s hedgerow.
One soldier was an older man, big and slow and implacable. ‘We got to do as we been bid, Jenkins. You know Hopkins told the Captain to head back right away after scouting but we been away a whole day and a night now.’
Jenkins was younger, smaller and angrier. ‘You’re flaming great fool, Rowland. I’m telling you, if we go back with only half our men, with the Captain been taken prisoner or dead by a bunch of flaming peasants what do you think Hopkins will do to us? He’ll string us up, he will.’
‘What about this boy, then?’ Rowland said. ‘We can’t take him back or let him go in case he tells Hopkins what happened. What do we do with him?’
‘Take a guess,’ Jenkins said, drawing a long pistol from his belt and pulling back the hammer.
Keeper’s eyes were open and staring into the fire. His eyes were glowing like coals and the flames were dancing higher and higher.
‘Now hold on a minute,’ Rowland said. ‘You can’t just sho
ot a -’
The campfire shot up with a roar and the flames engulfed Jenkins, who screamed and threw his hands in the air. The pistol went off with a bang and Jenkins fell to the ground. Rowland looked terrified and the others jumped to their feet, shouting. The horses bolted, tearing their reins from the branches and charged off towards the hills in a thunder of hooves.
And then just like that the fire was out. Jenkins was writhing around moaning, smoke coming from him. The men ran over and helped Jenkins to his feet. The man’s clothes were burned almost entirely off and his hair was singed bald and he looked dazed but otherwise unharmed.
‘What alchemy is this?’ Rowland roared and charged at Keeper.
Keeper, who had not moved from his knees now jumped to his feet, eyes burning like a torch. He heaved on the rope that was tying him to the log and pulled the log round and up through the campfire where it lit on fire and swung it up and round to smack into Rowland’s chest. Rowland staggered around Keeper, his clothes catching alight fell into the great pile of firewood. The firewood burst into flames and the blaze rushed outwards in every direction. The soldiers rolled on the floor clutching their faces and crying out. In the middle of it all stood Keeper with glowing red eyes and the tiniest smile on his face.
‘We have to help him.’ Archer said.
Weaver pointed a shaky finger at Keeper. ‘I think he’s alright.’
‘Not for long,’ Archer said. The soldiers were climbing to their feet. They weren’t dead, none of them, not even badly burned. Most had lost their hair and eyebrows and their uniforms had burned into blackened tatters. Their muskets were scattered about and on fire but they could easily beat Keeper to a pulp when they got their wits together. One of them staggered towards Keeper, and then another.
‘We’ll have to go around,’ Archer shouted at Weaver as he dragged her to her feet and started off to find a gap in the hedgerow.
‘Hold up,’ Weaver shouted back at him and sunk her fists into the long grass and mud. The ground rumbled underfoot and then the hedgerow in flew upwards and apart leaving a tear in the earth.