‘Now ye are talking, lassie – I mean, your queenship. Where there’s a war there’s a Nac Mac Feegle.’
There was a barrage of cries of ‘Crivens’ from the clan and Rob Anybody shouted, ‘Aye, get ’em doon, and the kickin’ starts.’ There was another cheer then and Big Yan jumped up and shouted, ‘Ye will need to tak’ note, ye weans. We dinnae say yes tae Mister Finesse, but we jes’ kick ’em.’
Hamish added, ‘Whan Morag swoops doon on top o’ ’em, her beak ’n’ talons’ll tak’ their breath awa’. And she’s a heavy girl.’
‘Be happy that they are on our side,’ Tiffany said. She looked reprovingly at Mrs Earwig, who had a snooty look on her face. ‘It’s true that they are rough diamonds, but no better warriors can be found anywhere on the Disc.’ And she hoped that Mrs Earwig didn’t hear the mumbling:
Daft Wullie. ‘What’s this? Did we stole any diamonds?’
‘It’s a manner of speaking, ye daftie.’ Rob Anybody.
‘But we got no manners. We treasure the fact, ye ken.’ Wullie, again.
‘It’s an idiom.’
‘Who’re you calling an idiom?’
Tiffany laughed to herself. It appeared that the kelda had been seeing to the clan’s range of expressions.
Rob waved his claymore in the air, making one or two witches retreat a step or two, and then he leaped up onto a table and glared down the hall. ‘Weel, I see the Lady Nightshade is with us the noo,’ he said. ‘Ach, the big wee hag and the kelda seem tae think that we shouldnae do anything aboot this elf – we are tae leave her alone. Although,’ he continued, looking at Nightshade, ‘we’ll be watching her carefully, verra carefully indeed. Oor kelda is soft, oor kelda, as soft as stone, ye ken – she is nae one to let a body break their troth and get away wi’ it!’
‘Dear sir, Mister Feegle,’ said Mrs Earwig. ‘This is a council of war, so we should be discussing strategies and tactics.’
‘Ah weel, ye can if ye wish, but we are Feegles and we dinnae mess about wi’ things like that. It’s all aboot usin’ yon claymore to best offence. And if ye dinnae get that right, your last resort is to nut ’em.’
Tiffany took in Mrs Earwig’s face and said cheerfully, ‘Could you do that, Mrs Earwig?’
She was given a Look, and Mrs Earwig said, ‘I will nut as I see fit.’ And to Tiffany’s surprise, the other witches applauded, and for once Mrs Earwig was wreathed in smiles.
‘I tell ye, I would nae cross yon carlin,’ said Rob Anybody.
‘Nae me,’ said Big Yan. ‘She’s as sharp as a she-wolf.’
‘So wheer’s yon battle, then, hag o’ the hills?’ Rob demanded.
There was another roar from the assembled Feegles, and a forest of little swords and clubs were thrust into the air.
‘Nac Mac Feegle, wha hae!’
‘A guid kickin’ for the wee scunners!’
‘Nae king! Nae quin! We willnae be fooled again!’
Tiffany smiled. ‘If Nightshade is right, the elves will ride through this coming night – when the full moon shines in the skies. Ladies – and Geoffrey,’ she addressed the assembled witches. ‘Go and get some rest. I must fly back to my steading now, but goodnight and good luck.’
‘Let the runes of fortune guide and protect us all,’ Mrs Earwig added portentously, always determined to get the last word in.
Tiffany loved the little room she’d had since she was a child. Her parents hadn’t changed anything, and unless it was raining or blowing a gale, she slept with the window open.
Now, weary from the broomstick ride back, tense with the expectation of what the night might bring but hoping to get a few hours’ rest, she savoured the atmosphere of the little room, finding strength from its familiarity.
A strength that came from feeling that she was exactly where she should be. An Aching.
‘I get up Aching, and I go to bed Aching,’ she whispered to herself, smiling. One of her father’s jokes, and she had rolled her eyes when hearing it again and again as a child, but now its warmth curled over her body.
And there was the china shepherdess on the shelf.
Granny Aching.
And next to it she had placed the shepherd’s crown.
Aching to Aching, down the generations.
Land under wave, she mused. That was what the name Tiffany meant in the speech of the Feegles. Tir-far-thóinn, ‘Tiffan’, the kelda would call her. The sound of her name was magic, real magic from the beginning of time.
It was a soft night. She told herself that she really ought to get some sleep – she’d be no good without some rest – but she lay there, the cat You snuggled up against her warmth, listening to the owls. Hootings were coming from everywhere, as if they were warning her.
Outside her window, the moon was rising, a gloriously full silver orb to light the skies, to lead the elves in . . .
Tiffany’s eyes closed.
And a part of her, the soul of her, was in a chalk pit, the shepherd’s crown in her hand, its five ridges catching the light of the full moon, and it was glowing, like an aquarium out of time.
Now she could hear the roar of the ancient sea beneath her, its voice trapped in the millions of tiny shells that made up the Chalk.
And she was swimming . . .
Great strange fish were coming towards her, big and heavy-looking with teeth.
At that point, Dr Bustlefn2 floated into her mind and took his cue. ‘Dunkleosteus,’ he said as a creature the size of a house floated by. ‘Megalodon’ was huge and carnivorous – more teeth than Tiffany had ever seen in one go. Then there were sea scorpions – armour-plated, clawed horrors. But none of them paid any attention to her. It was as if she had a right to be there.
And then there was a smaller creature, an explosion of blue spines that did notice Tiffany.
‘Echinoid,’ whispered Sensibility Bustle.
‘That is correct,’ said the creature. ‘And I am the shepherd’s crown. Deep in my heart is the flint. And I have many uses. Some call me the sea urchin, others the thunderstone, but here, now, in this place, call me the shepherd’s crown. I seek a true shepherd. Where can a true shepherd be found?’
‘We shall see,’ Tiffany heard herself saying. ‘I am Tiffany Aching and my father is a king among shepherds.’
‘We know him. He is a good shepherd, but not the best. You must find the king of shepherds.’
‘Well,’ said Tiffany, ‘I’m just a witch, but I will help you if I can. I work hard, mostly for other people.’
‘Yes,’ said the echinoid. ‘We know.’
I’m talking to a creature from under the sea, thought Tiffany. Is that right? First Thoughts, not Second Thoughts, her mind reminded her.
‘It is strange,’ said the voice of Dr Bustle in her head. ‘But not so strange as falling down a rabbit hole with a pack of cards.’
Let me think about it, her Second and Third Thoughts said. If talking creatures from the sea turned up everywhere, we’d all know about it, so this must be something just for me.
The voice came from nowhere, as though it was part of that ocean from Time: ‘Tiffany Aching is the first among shepherds, for she puts others before herself . . .’
And the shepherd’s crown was warm in her hand, a golden light glowing from within its depths. An heirloom handed down from generation to generation of Achings – down to Granny Aching, on to Joe Aching, and now to Tiffany herself . . .
Then the sea had gone and she was back in the pit, but the magic was still there, for slowly, oh so slowly, she could see bones pulling themselves free of the chalk, rising to draw together . . . to make two figures . . .
Thunder and Lightning! Granny Aching’s sheepdogs. The best dogs any shepherd could ever have. Dogs for the first among shepherds.
Now they were at her feet, their ears pricked, and Tiffany felt as if she could almost reach out to touch them. Almost. But not quite. For if she should touch them, be part of them, would she too be drawn into the chalk, to be bones like the
m . . .?
‘Come by, Thunder. Away to me, Lightning,’ she whispered, the familiar commands filling her with courage.
Then she was suddenly awake, back in her room, You draped across her feet and an owl’s huge eyes hanging in the dark of the trees outside.
And someone was tapping on the window.
While the moon shone gloriously full over the stone circles, lighting a path for her wayward children, who rode through in their splendour . . .
fn1 Most everyday working witches believed the best use for a book was on a nail in the privy.
fn2 Part of him anyway, his memories being relocated to Tiffany’s mind following an episode early in her witching life. The rather pedantic wizard’s knowledge, especially of ancient languages, came in very handy sometimes, like when she wanted to read a peculiar menu in Ankh-Morpork.
CHAPTER 18
The Shepherd’s Crown
THERE WAS THE face of Rob Anybody, and he said, ‘The scunners are breaking through, Mistress Tiffany. It’s stairted!’
‘So cry “Crivens” and let loose the clan Mac Feegle!’ Tiffany commanded as a small group of Feegles scrambled out from under the bed, from where they had been watching over her. One of them appeared to have been hiding in her boots . . . he was now punching at the laces with a cry of ‘Tak’ tha’, yer nasty wrigglin’ little bogles!’
Boots, Tiffany thought. I wish I had brought Granny Weatherwax’s boots to wear for this fight. They would have given me strength. And then she stopped this thought. No. This is my land. My turf. My feet. My boots. My way . . .
But she still scolded herself as she struggled into her dress and thought that she should have slept with her day clothes on: What kind of leader are you?
As she stumbled to pull on her boots she felt a weight in the deep pocket of her fine black dress . . . and she pulled out the shepherd’s crown, which she thought she had put on the shelf. Had she put it there herself earlier that night? Ready for this moment?
And to the moon she said, ‘What is the shepherd’s crown? Whom does the shepherd’s crown serve?’
And the answer dropped into her head. ‘Tiffany Aching, Land under Wave.’
She twisted a thong of leather rapidly around the flint and hung it around her neck. She would go into battle with its power at her heart, she thought. The power of generations of Achings. Of Granny Aching. Of the shepherds of all time.
Then she ran down the darkened stairs and out of the door, locking it behind her, and was not surprised to see You the cat perched on the front of her broomstick, purring and looking smug, while Nightshade was stumbling from the barn, Wee Mad Arthur at her side.
Then she was flying through the silvery night, the elf Nightshade clutching at her waist, Feegles hanging on to the bristles, and the owls following behind her, a squadron of feathered allies . . .
Over in Lancre, Nanny Ogg was sleeping and her snores could have cut timber. Suddenly there was a mild explosion which might be called a grumph! and the cat, Greebo, woke up and sniffed the air.
Nanny had been sleeping in her day clothes. After all, she thought, who knew for sure when the elves would come.
She shouted, ‘Greebo, ring the castle bell.’
The cat was suddenly not there, but there was a blur of cat travelling at speed up to the castle, Greebo’s unmistakable smell lingering in the air behind him, and when the guard saw him coming towards him he ran after him into the bell tower.
And as the great castle bell tolled, light blossomed throughout the castle as candles were lit in every window, followed very shortly by the rest of Lancre Town. The bell! What danger was this?
In the royal bedchamber, Queen Magrat nudged her husband, who was still rubbing his eyes, and said, ‘Verence, help me buckle my escutcheon, will you, my dear?’
The King sighed. ‘Look, why can’t I go with you? It’s going to be dangerous.’
Magrat smiled. The smile that you gave loving but occasionally annoying husbands. This was old ground. ‘Well, someone has to be left at home,’ she said. ‘It’s like chess, you know. The Queen saves the King.’
‘Yes, dear,’ said the King and opened the cupboard that contained the armour of Queen Ynci. Ynci had been the most fearsome warrior queen Lancre had ever seen. Well, so the stories said, as she hadn’t actually existed. But the people of Lancre hadn’t let a tiny thing like that stop them adding her to their history, and so a set of armour had been made to go along with a portrait. Magrat had worn the armour the last time she faced the elves, and it seemed only right to wear it again.
As the door opened, Magrat thought she heard a subtle little sound of a call to arms. Queen Ynci’s armour had a life of its own and it always shone, even in the dark. Verence helped her buckle on the mail armour – which she secretly thought of as fe-mail – then she slipped her feet into the heavy-soled spiked sandals, and topped it all off with the winged helmet. The last piece to go on was the leather baldric.
Verence wanted to embrace her, but he thought, I won’t. There were too many spikes, in any case. But he loved his wife to distraction, so he tried again to volunteer himself to be somewhere in the coming fray.
‘Magrat, my love,’ he murmured, ‘it seems so shaming if the King can’t fight.’
‘You are a very good king, Verence,’ his wife said firmly, ‘but this is witches’ work. And someone has to look after the people and our children.’ The Queen – Magrat, as was – staggered under the weight of the armour, and under her breath she whispered a little magic. ‘Queen Ynci, Queen of Queens, make your armour light.’ And suddenly she felt strong, stronger than she had ever been before.
She picked up a crossbow in one hand, her broomstick in the other, and almost flew down the stairs to the Great Hall where the other witches, who were for the most part en déshabille, stared at her with wild surmise. Wild surmises take on many shapes and every witch, some still in their underwear, stared at the Queen and the surmise each gave her hung there in the rafters.
In the voice of Queen Ynci, Magrat shouted, ‘Up, girls, and at ’em. It’s started, ladies, so get your heavy-duty knickers on and your sticks ready!’ She glared at the only witch to be fully dressed, spick and span in three minutes, to the surprise of all. ‘That means you too, Mrs Earwig.’
There was a little commotion at the back of the hall, then a sudden crash and a group of witches ground to a halt.
‘What’s happening?’ Magrat cried, still in the voice of Queen Ynci.
‘It’s only Long Tall Short Fat Sally: she’s got two feet down one knicker!’ said Mrs Proust. Surrounded by witches, Long Tall Short Fat Sally – small and squat right then, like a low-lying thunderstorm – was swiftly put back on her feet.
Mrs Earwig looked rather smug and said, ‘I’ve been looking at my charts. The omens are good.’
‘Well, omens are ten a penny,’ said Mrs Proust. ‘I’ve got lots of them. After all, we are all witches.’
And the ghost of Queen Ynci filled Magrat, who said, ‘Let us fly.’
In Mr Sideways’s old barn, Mephistopheles laid a hoof gently on Geoffrey’s sleeping form. Geoffrey jumped out of the straw and discovered that the old boys who had readied themselves for the coming battle by bivouacking in the barn with him were already up and about, creaking a bit, and making their toilet in a bucket.
Geoffrey looked at the old men. They had spent most of the evening carousing and telling stories of the days when they were all young and handsome and healthy and didn’t have to pass water far too often.
They had managed to make their wives give them a ticket of leave, and said wives had been given to believe that their husbands were just in the barn for a few drinks and reminiscences. The wives, as wives do, had festooned their menfolk with big scarves, mittens on strings and woolly hats with, alas, pompoms on the top.
Captain Makepeace – the old boys’ acknowledged military leader – said, ‘It’s time to go and get out Laughing Boy’s confounded contraption.’
&nbs
p; Geoffrey looked at the captain’s warriors and sighed internally. Could they do it? They were old men. And then he thought, Yes, they are old men. They have been old men for a long time, which means they have learned many things. Like lying, and being crafty and, most importantly, dissembling.
‘We shall fight them on the mountains. We shall fight them on the rocks. We shall fight them over the hills and down in the valleys.fn1 We shall never surrender!’ Captain Makepeace roared, and there was an answering cheer.
‘They will not like it up and over ’em!’ Smack Tremble called out, waving what looked like a rusty bayonet in the air and, worryingly, living up to his name. ‘They will not like it, oh no they won’t!’
Mephistopheles grunted as Geoffrey hitched him to his little cart, which the old boys had filled with mysterious bags before drinking the night away, and the two of them followed the old men out of the barn.
Captain Makepeace didn’t need to tell his men to be stealthy. They already were. It was running fast that would be a problem. And stealthily they made their way into the wood and further on to where they had hidden Mr Sideways’s contraption, camouflaging it with branches.
Geoffrey watched them pull Mr Sideways’s project out into the clearing. It stood there looking ominous. Surrounded by the bushes. Waiting its moment. Like a huge insect.
One with a nasty sting . . .
Up by the circle of stones called the Dancers, Lord Lankin was exulting. His elves were dancing around the stones, flitting in and out and metaphorically tweaking the noses of the Piper, the Drummer, the Leaper – the best-known stones. The power of the gate was weak, and the glamour of the elves was . . . fearsome.
‘They are not even here, waiting for us!’ Lord Lankin gloated. ‘Stupid humans. If we go down through those woods, we could be out into the centre of Lancre in one great charge. And the moon is full and on our side.’
And in the silver moonlight, the elves, some on horseback, bells jingling and harness tinkling, made their way down the hill towards the woods.
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