by Toby Forward
“Ah, well,” he said, beaming at them with apparent delight. “Here we all are. Who would have thought it, eh? Who would have thought it? What a pleasure to meet up like this, eh?”
He put his hand out to shake Sam’s. Sam turned his face away in disgust. Tamrin stepped forward and slapped him, hard.
“Take that stupid smile off your silly face,” she shouted.
Frastfil reeled back, steadied himself and smiled again.
“All this,” said Tamrin. “All this … this … evil. It’s you that did it. It’s your fault.”
Frastfil stammered a reply. “I don’t think … I mean, I don’t know why you … that is, it’s not me that made, er…” He waved his arm, indicating everything around them.
“She’s right,” said Ash.
“Oh?” said Frastfil. He put his hands back into his pockets and jingled the coins.
“Whatever it is,” said Ash. “Evil? I don’t think so. It’s power. My power. But whatever it is, I could never have done this. Never have brought them all here. Never have destroyed Canterstock College without your help.”
“I did nothing wrong,” said Frastfil. “Not really. I only meant to do good. I didn’t destroy it. I made it better.”
Tamrin shouted at him. “You stupid, stupid man.”
Ash patted his arm.
“That was all I needed,” she said. “Now, Flaxfield. Let me see you better.”
She faced the old wizard. Sam felt his shoulders grow tight. He waited to see what Flaxfield would do. How he would fight her.
Ash stroked Flaxfield’s cheek. He didn’t move or show any sign of knowing that she had touched him.
“Do some magic for me,” she whispered. “Please. Go on.”
Nothing passed over Flaxfield’s face. His thin fingers gripped his staff, the bones hardly covered by flesh. Flaxfold touched her shoulder against his. And Sam knew that Flaxfield’s magic was no more.
“No?” said Ash. “What a pity.”
Sam couldn’t look at the old wizard’s face any longer. He turned away.
Ash walked back to Tamrin. She put her hand to the girl’s throat, touched the heavy, iron seal.
Tamrin stepped back. Ash grabbed the seal. The leather thong tightened round Tamrin’s neck. Ash pulled her back and put her face close. Her hand closed around the seal.
“This is for me, I think,” she said.
She tugged, and the thong broke.
Sam rushed at her. She put her hand out and he fell like a hailstone, gasping for breath, pain like a knife in his side.
Ash, her excitement betraying her, crossed the courtyard with swift steps. She pushed Smedge out of the way and knelt at the edge of the barrier that had held her prisoner for so long.
“Stop her,” said Sam.
He stared at Flaxfield, at Flaxfold. They did nothing. Jackbones had collapsed on arrival at the castle and was sitting, forlorn and alone. Cabbage put out a hand to stop December. Sam noticed now that she had covered herself with her shawl again. Her head and face hidden. She shrugged off Cabbage’s hand, stepped over to the kneeling figure of Ash and tapped her shoulder.
“Leave me,” said Ash. She clicked an impatient hand to repel December.
“Slowin,” said December.
Ash looked over her shoulder. Sam saw that she was surprised her spell had not affected December.
December unwrapped herself from the shawl.
“Slowin,” she repeated.
Ash looked at December’s wasted face,
the skin puckered and drawn, the lips nothing but a line, the eyelids hooded and heavy.
“What?” she said.
“It’s been a long time, Slowin,” said December.
“Ash. My name’s Ash.”
She stood, her hand slow to leave the mark of the seal on the ground. Sam noted the contrast between Ash’s long, elegant grey robe and December’s serviceable clothes. He was startled to understand that the difference between them was a deceit. Ash, slender and perfect, her fine features unmarked by age or damage; she looked like the princess of the castle in a tale for children. A beauty. December, damaged and destroyed. A face to scare birds. A face to fear. A cruel joke played on the flesh by ancient fire.
For a second he was deceived. His eyes tricked him. Looking again, he saw only beauty in December’s face, only horror in the perfection of Ash.
“No,” said December. “You’re Slowin. You stole a name from me, and now I give you back your own.”
“Who are you?” said Ash.
“I am Flame,” said December.
She drew in a deep breath. Her hair became fire. Ash put her hand over her face to shield herself from the heat.
December stepped towards Ash and was halted by a deep, resonating boom. She stopped. The flames died down. Ash lowered her arm and looked at her.
Boom.
Sam felt the stones of the courtyard shake beneath him.
Boom.
The kravvins moved forward, alert to danger.
“Kill.”
“Eat.”
“Stab.”
Boom.
Smedge ran over to Ash and took her arm.
They all looked down at the ground beneath their feet.
December and Ash confronted each other. Sam watched as each held the other’s gaze. December, ignoring the booming beneath her, began to kindle her hair again and invoke the fire magic. Smedge stepped between the two of them.
“You’re Bee,” he said. “You’re not Flame. Flame was taken from you, and you can’t take it back. Not now.”
Smedge’s face began to melt and drip. His skin turned green. He oozed slime as he spoke. Flecks of it spattered over December.
“You’re just a girl called Bee, who got burned into an ugly woman. And I’m the real child of the magic that damaged you.”
He put his hand on her head and he melted over her. He sizzled, and the flames died out. His hand dribbled slime so that her head and neck and face were covered.
Ash laughed.
“Good lad, Smedge,” she said. “I nearly believed her. Hold her there while I free the gates.”
“December,” Sam called. “Come here. Move away.” He looked for help. “Cabbage. Come on. Do something.”
Ash crouched down, putting the seal to its impression on the ground.
Boom.
The earth shook.
Boom.
The gates split and toppled.
Boom.
The arched, stone entrance shattered and fell.
Ash stood and looked through.
“Free,” she said. “At last.”
The faces surged through the broken wall of the dungeon. They had bodies, and arms and legs. Human bodies. Not the hard shells of beetles.
They ran straight past Tadpole, heading for the kravvins.
Faster than Tadpole could follow, they swung out. Axes and picks, iron clubs and spades. They slammed into the hard black bodies, splitting them open.
More and more of the men clambered through the breach in the walls. Their faces black with dust and grime. Their sleeves rolled up. Their arms thick with work.
When Smith stepped through the gap Tadpole tried to get to his feet again, and again was pulled back by the chains.
“What’s happening?” asked Tadpole. “Who…”
“The Finished Miners,” said Smith. “I made tools for them. There’s work to do. Come on.”
“I can’t. I’m chained.”
“Then free yourself.”
Tadpole shook his arms. The heavy chains rattled.
Smith pushed aside Tadpole’s cloak with his hammer, revealing the small dagger.
“Come on,” he said.
Tadpole drew the dagger and looked at Smith for help.
“Quick about it,” said Smith.
Tadpole, feeling foolish, held the blade of the knife against the chain on his other wrist. It cut through the metal, like a boat through water. The chains fell away.
“I made tha
t knife,” said Smith. “Use it. Now, come on.”
“Wait,” said Tadpole.
He crossed the room to Khazib. The wizard had not moved from his spot. Tadpole put his hand under Khazib’s forearm.
“May I?” he asked.
And he helped him to his feet. Khazib swayed and his knees buckled.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’ve been kneeling like that for many years. Please. A moment.”
More miners streamed through the gap. They ran through the dungeon and out of the door, following the first ones through. Khazib stepped forward, just one foot. Then the other. He swayed, righted himself and smiled.
“Let us see what is happening,” he said.
They left the dungeon and made their way up the steep steps. Tadpole looked over his shoulder to check, and was reassured to see Mattie bringing up the rear, the shield on his arm.
Clouds ran off, chased by a strong wind
that cleared the vast emptiness overhead. The sky was growing dark. Sam watched December as she sank down to her knees, swamped by the green slime pouring from Smedge’s hand.
Ash shone like a glowing coal, the grey of her robe flecked with gold and silver light.
The ground shook under Sam. He struggled to keep his balance, using his staff for support.
Deep booming echoed round the courtyard.
First the supports of the gates then the rest of the walls shattered and split.
Ash turned round and round, in a slow survey of triumph.
“Free of this place,” she shouted, above the noise.
The kravvins threw themselves against the falling walls in a frenzy of hunger, shouting for murder. They turned on each other, stabbing, lunging and biting.
Ash stopped turning. She crossed to Flaxfield and Flaxfold. The two old wizards, helpless against her, waited in silence.
“Time for you to go,” said Ash. “Do you want to die in fire, or shall I feed you to my kravvins?”
Sam ran over and stood shoulder to shoulder with Flaxfold. Tamrin, just as quick, stood next to Flaxfield.
“Kill us all, if you can,” she said.
Sam looked over at her and nodded.
“All of us,” he agreed.
And he threw himself at Ash, grabbing her throat and driving her to the ground.
As she fell, Ash slid away, a sliver of grey, righting herself and looking down at Sam where he fell. She touched his shoulder with a single finger and he felt a current of fire wash through him.
“You first, then,” she said.
Sam looked up and saw Dorwin stand behind Ash. She took her arm and turned her away from Sam.
“Get out of my way,” said Ash.
Another, greater crash shook the ground again. Sam rocked where he lay. The turret, high above him, teetered and Sam thought for a second that it was falling on him. The last of the dusk clouds raced past it, leaving the darkling sky clear.
Black faces and iron tools emerged from the cracks in the stonework. Like ants from a nest, the Finished Miners clambered up. They flung themselves on the kravvins, smashing them to pieces.
“Smith,” said Dorwin. “About time.”
He grinned at her. His hammer rested on his arm, ready for use.
“You found the iron, then,” she said.
“And worked it,” he said. “Worked it deep underground, with roffle fire. I made their axes and picks, their spades and shovels.”
He leaned down and lifted Sam to his feet.
“All right, lad?”
Sam nodded, breathless, shocked at the violence all around him.
Boolat was crumbling. Every stone, every wall and door, every turret and tower, falling, under the blows of the miners. The kravvins, what was left of them, fled away, up the hill, to join the crazed takkabakks running in senseless circles.
Just as Sam began to recover his balance and start to take in the victory, Ash lifted her head and screamed out.
“Let it be fire,” she shouted. “Let it all be fire.”
A circle of flame blazed up where the castle walls had stood.
“Wild fire. Wild magic,” she shouted.
The circle contracted and advanced. It swept towards them, consuming everything it touched. Smedge and December disappeared into its flames. Cabbage, his mouth wide open in some sort of challenge or cry for help, was eaten by its approach.
Sam’s cloak scorched and then, before the flames even reached him, burst into fire, wrapping him in burning wild magic.
Ash alone was untouched by it. She stood in the centre of the blaze, her face alight with pleasure. Her arms upraised to welcome it.
Sam made one last attempt to conjure some magic to protect, to fight, to resist. His staff kindled in his hands and was swallowed by the fire, all magic spent.
The host of Finished Miners
swept Tadpole up the staircase. They lifted him off his feet like a wave, carrying him with them. He looked over his shoulder for Mattie, comforted somehow by the frail boy with his shield.
They burst through the doorway, into the courtyard. Fanning out, they stopped supporting Tadpole and he dropped to his feet. Smith gave him a huge push away from the wall, which crashed to the ground behind him. Stone dust and mortar, shattered blocks and shards fell around him. Smith carried on, smashing kravvins out of the way with his hammer.
“Mattie,” said Tadpole. “Are you there?”
The sensation of lace brushed his neck.
“No,” said Tadpole. “Not this. I didn’t leave the Deep World for this.”
He lowered his head and closed his eyes against the killing and the wreckage.
Mattie leaned closer to him.
“Go home,” he whispered.
Tadpole opened his eyes and looked at him.
“What?”
“Go home, then. There are roffle doors, aren’t there? Take one. Go home.”
Tadpole looked to his right. Just there. Only a few feet away. A roffle door. All he had to do was walk through it, and it would be over. He could leave Up Top to its troubles and go home. He stepped towards it. A small, furry nose peeped out.
“You,” said Tadpole. “Come here.”
The memmont’s head appeared.
“Come on,” said Tadpole.
The creature didn’t move.
“It won’t come here,” said Mattie. “Not to this. It’s waiting for you to go home.”
Tadpole stood still. “I want to go home,” he said.
He shrugged his roffle pack to make it easier on his back. He pushed the edges of his cloak to one side. He planted his staff firmly. His hand went to his dagger, closing over the handle, comfortable as ever.
“Are you going back like that?” asked Mattie.
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll look odd, in the Deep World. Looking like that.”
He fingered the hem of Tadpole’s cloak.
“You could give that to me,” he said.
The noise around them swelled and sharpened. Tadpole leaned in to Mattie to hear him. The shrieks of the kravvins made his head hurt. The booms and crashes shook him. Only sudden flares of flame broke the advancing darkness. He looked up at the sky. The moon edged above a broken wall. A single star shyly broke through the blackness.
Tadpole took a deep breath.
“The first one,” he said.
He felt the memmont nuzzle against his leg.
More stars stepped forward as the darkness thickened.
“I’m staying,” said Tadpole. “I’m joining in.”
He took in the details of the battle in front of him. Smedge, drowning December in slime. The wizards, trapped by their helplessness in the midst of Ash’s magic. Dorwin, greeting Smith with a smile. Sam and Tamrin, his new friends, either side of their old tutors. Frastfil, terrified, jingling his coins and calling out to Ash for help.
The Finished Miners were winning their battles with the kravvins, but Ash still had weapons.
As Tadpole started towards A
sh, she shouted, “Let it be fire. Let it all be fire.”
And all became fire.
“You’re too late,” said Mattie.
He buckled on his shield and held it in front of him, in a hopeless attempt to keep the flames away.
Tadpole saw the roffle door disappear, melt away in the furnace of wild magic.
He looked up again. The sky was black now. The moon glowed orange through the flames.
“The stars,” said Tadpole. “I can’t see them.”
The fire raced towards them, building strength as it engulfed the two boys. Tadpole’s hair began to singe. Mattie, closer to the flames, lit up like a torch. He still brandished his shield. The fire licked it, making a circle of flame.
As Tadpole looked, the fire stripped paint and age away from the shield, burning it back to the beaten metal. It began to glow, silver and bright. The curved surface looked back at Tadpole with a lustre from inside, no reflected light. Tadpole looked back at himself in the shield, his head surrounded by a field of stars.
His cloak and his hair stopped burning. He could breathe again through the choking smoke and heat. His staff, which had started to smoulder, grew cool. Without a thought of why, he raised it above his head.
A circle of ground around him became still and free of fire. He raised it higher, and the circle grew larger.
Mattie stopped burning. And he grew more substantial.
“Come on,” he shouted. “Come on, Tadpole. Hurry up.”
Tadpole strode out of his circle, right into the heart of the fire. As he passed he left a path for Mattie to follow. Wherever he trod, the fire spluttered and died. Smedge lunged to stop him. Before Tadpole could resist, Smedge lost shape, melted and disappeared.
“Say something,” said Mattie, trotting alongside Tadpole and squeezing his arm. “Do something.”
Tadpole stopped, tilted his head back and called out, “Enough fire. Go.”
Without a pause the fire died. The courtyard became silent. The Finished Miners put aside their tools. December lay where she had fallen, shocked, but alive.
The wind streamed through the broken walls, blowing Tadpole’s cloak away from his shoulders, revealing his roffle pack. He stood, legs braced, arm flexed, holding the staff. A nose nuzzled against his leg. He put his hand down to stroke the memmont, to comfort it. His fingers touched scales. He looked down. The memmont’s familiar face looked up at him, disguised, but not hidden, by the thick skin and shining body of a new-made dragon.