by Robin Jarvis
They were the Runtlemen: a scavenging, beggarly tribe that infested Hunter’s Chase like cockroaches. They were no bigger than hedgepigs, and it was believed they interbred with them, for many were covered in spines and had a passion for slugs. Other sickly specimens sprouted tatty feathers and were clawed of foot. Some had rodent-like features. They were dressed in rags, or tufty with fleabitten fur, or were naked under clods of dirt. No one had dealings with the Runtlemen. Time and again they had proven themselves to be the lowest form of walking filth. They were dishonest and sneaky, treacherous and merciless – but only if the victim was weaker than themselves. Because foremost in their character was a profound, inherent cowardice. Without that, the Runtlemen would have been a terror to travellers through the wood and their great numbers would have emboldened them to invade neighbouring farms and dwellings, maybe even to assail the village of Mooncot.
And so the Jill of Spades eyed them with the contempt they deserved. She despised having to traffic with them, but she had no choice. They had something she wanted.
She grimaced at them. The vermin surrounded her and the virgin snow made them appear even dirtier.
“Where is your chief?” she demanded.
One of that pestiferous horde took a hesitant step forward. He leaned on a gnarled staff. There was more nose than face on his wizened head.
“Here am I, Your Highness,” he squeaked, blinking nervously. “We received your message.”
Jill didn’t disguise her revulsion. “Then where is it?” she asked. “Where is the thing you claimed you had in your possession? Would you dare try to deceive me?”
The chief tapped his nose. A speck of dirt fell out.
“We have it, to be sure!” he told her proudly. “Found it lying way yonder, deep in the forest – the snow all around crimsoned with blood and the frozen corpses of wolves and sundry portions of another beast we weren’t quite sure of.”
The multitude smacked their lips at the memory of that hearty feast.
“Yes, we have what you want. Have no doubts about that, but what of your end of the bargain? We Runtlemen are ever scorned and played false by such as you.”
“Such as I?” she said, highly insulted. “There are no others such as I in this entire Kingdom. Never forget that.”
The chief grovelled apologetically.
“Even so,” he wheedled, “where is that which you were to bring in exchange?”
The Jill of Spades walked back to her sleigh. A smaller sled had been trailed behind it. The bulky object this carried was hidden beneath a large piece of sacking. Jill pulled the cloth away and at once the clearing erupted with thrilled chirps and clicks and yips and caws and the stamping of little feet.
On the sled, trussed in ropes and in great discomfort, was a great silver swan. It was the King Swan, from the moat around the White Castle, and the only creature who dared challenge Mauger, the monstrous Guardian of the Gate. It was said to own the most fearless heart in the whole Realm.
The bird’s head was bound close to its body. Its bright, flame-coloured eyes were open now and ablaze with fury. The sleeping potion she had captured it with had worn off and it strained and pulled on the ropes.
The Runtlemen streamed eagerly towards the sled.
“One moment,” the girl said, standing between it and them. The look on her face was enough to cow their fervour and send them skittering back again. “Where is what you owe me?”
The chief tilted his head and blew a high, skirling note through his nose.
Soon Jill heard the grunts and puffing wheezes of many voices, as fifty more of those squalid forest lice came trudging into the open. But above their heads, the new arrivals were carrying what she was so desperate to have. With it, she could keep the bargain Haxxentrot had forced upon her, the night of the autumn revel.
The Runtlemen brought into the clearing the skull of an animal. It was larger than any of them and they had attached it to a long stick, which was more like a tree trunk to their eyes.
The Jill of Spades pulled the sables close round her throat and nuzzled into them. This was a glorious moment, for that was no ordinary skull. A long, tapering horn spiralled up between the eye sockets and the remains of a wispy beard still clung to the jaw. It was the skull of a unicorn.
“We cleaned it out real tidy,” the chief boasted. “Gnawed and licked every last bit, every shred, ’cept the beard, thought it looked prettier with it left on – and we was full from the wolves.”
“It’s exquisite,” she declared. “Give it to me – I must have it.”
The chief signalled to the bearers to bring it closer.
“Might a low-born bogworm such as me dare ask what you want with such a totem?”
She arched her brows. “What do you want with a swan?”
“Ah, that’s easy answered. We’re going to eat it alive, Your Highness. There’s no braveness in our hearts you see, so if we eat the savagest critter in the land, we’re sure to get some. We was hoping the unicorn would’ve helped there, but it were too late by the time we found it. A maiden had tamed the fight clear out of the beast – and it were dead o’ course. The King Swan is a different kettle of rhubarb! Ho – we’ll be a-feared of no one, once we’ve gorged. Then we’ll make some heads ache and see about some grievances!”
Jill stooped and took hold of the stick, shaking off the Runtlemen whose hands had stuck to it with the cold. She lifted the unicorn’s skull level with her face and ran her hand down the horn.
“This,” she told the chief, amused to share her black secret with one such as he, “is a key. With it, I shall be able to pass through the enchanted fence of Malinda. No one with malign intent may enter there, but the virtue of this will guide me through. The dweller of the Forbidden Tower has tasked me with delivering unto her the Fairy Godmother’s wand –and this night she shall have it.”
The chief scratched his nose. “We never meddles with Malinda,” he said. “Nor even dare look on her cottage. Strong magick she got.”
The girl laughed. “Not after I steal it from her,” she said. “Besides, you and your sordid mob will have the courage of a thousand knights by then. Come, feast on the swan, eat your fill – I never liked it.”
She stepped aside and the Runtlemen surged at the sled, swarming up the runners and clambering over the ropes. The swan hissed at them, but could not move. Thousands of tiny, gore-hungry hands tore at the silver feathers and half as many little mouths prepared to feed.
Jill unhitched the sled from her sleigh. Those creatures were disgusting. Once she had delivered the wand, she would return and really would loose the hounds. They made her skin itch.
At that moment, three voices came bawling from the trees, where the track forked left. Jill spun around and saw a large girl and two boys belt towards the clearing, brandishing sticks and hollering bloodthirsty yells. The skin of one was almost as dark as her sables. It astounded her and she wasted precious moments staring. Then she jumped into the seat, but before she could crack the whip and command the hounds, the mysterious boy had stormed up and was reaching in.
“This is a sleighjacking, princess!” he declared, wrenching the skull from her.
“No!” she cried. “Who dares assault me? I’ll have you drawn and quartered for this!”
Maggie and Spencer had charged at the small sled and were swiping their sticks through the Runtlemen, whacking them off the stricken swan. The squealing host retreated before those formidable, battering weapons and they leaped from the bird’s back, clutching handfuls of downy feathers. Yammering, they bolted into the trees, shaking their fists at being cheated of their prize and swearing vengeance on humankind. One day they would be as ferocious as lions; one day they would strike and lay waste the works of man and everything he held dear. Maggie darted after them and they fled, screaming.
The Jill of Spades was incensed. Tearing off her gauntlets, she jumped from the seat and ran to the hounds, unbuckling the harnesses and ripping the muzzles from the
ir jaws.
“Get them!” she commanded, dragging two of the great dogs around and pointing at the three strange bandits. “Go – attack – kill!”
The hounds bounded away. Spencer staggered back at the sight of them and the stick fell from Maggie’s hands. The hungry dogs ran, swift as the wind, and their baying boomed through the forest. Their dark mistress grinned wickedly.
But Lee had not been idle. He still had the wire-cutters Mrs Benedict had given him in his pocket. They were brand-new and the blades were sharp. One by one he snipped through the restraining ropes and set the King Swan free.
“I hope you know whose side I’m on,” the boy told it as the final cord was cut.
The bird’s head reared like a cobra over the back of the sleigh. It hissed far more rancorously and the hounds slithered to a halt. The great wings shook and unfurled to an immense span and the dogs whimpered. The bird’s flaming eyes burned terror into them and they kicked up a snowstorm as they wheeled about and ran, yelping – with their tails clamped between their legs.
The King Swan glided from the sled, ran along the ground and lifted into the air, flying straight for the girl who had tormented and brought it here. The other four hounds yowled and flattened themselves into the snow as it swept low over their heads. The Jill of Spades uttered a horrified wail and raced into the trees, pursued by a wrathful, avenging, silver-winged angel.
Lee gripped the unicorn skull tightly.
“We’ve wasted enough time here,” he said sharply. “I know where we are now. I been this way before once. There’s a little cut-off just down that way. Malinda’s cottage ain’t far. Let’s go rob, or scam, or tie the old lady to a chair if we have to. That damn wand is mine tonight.”
LEE CHECKED HIS watch. Back in the camp, it was half eight, long after curfew. He was amazed their unconscious selves hadn’t been kicked, or worse, by now. If this was down to Alasdair then he owed that boy a huge apology – if they ever made it back.
“Am I the only one who thinks it’s incredibly convenient to have got here just when that deal was going on?” Maggie asked. “I mean, here we are wanting to do the exact same as the Jill of Spades and now we’ve got the one thing that’ll help us do it. Isn’t that a bit… well, unlikely? Shouldn’t we be worried?”
“That always happens in fantasy,” Spencer told her. “It’s one of the tropes. The hero always finds a magic plot device that’ll turn out really handy later. That’s why Westerns are better.”
“I’m not a hero,” Lee said darkly. “I just wanna kill someone – and this is gonna help.”
This time they kept to the track. It curved around in a long arc, where the trees grew more densely than anywhere else in Hunter’s Chase. The topmost branches met, high above their heads, forming a natural tunnel. If it hadn’t been winter, and without the sparkling whiteness of the surrounding snow, this part of the forest would be eerily dark.
“Isn’t Malinda supposed to be one of the few goodies in the book?” Maggie muttered, looking around uneasily. “It’s a bit doomy gloomy. She should sell up and move.”
“Evil things are always prowling round her cottage,” Spencer explained. “Her goodness is a magnet for them, and the witch has lots of her spies watching. That’s why Malinda needs the magic fence to keep them at bay.”
“I used to be a cake magnet,” the girl said. “That was a lot easier.”
Lee gave them a stern look that told them to be quiet. Maggie’s instinctive stress response was to crack feeble jokes, but this really wasn’t the time for it and certainly not the place.
The path made a sharp turn and they stood stock-still when they beheld what lay beyond. There, in a glade, only a short distance away – was the home of Malinda.
It was every child’s ideal of a cosy country cottage. Built of mellow stone, crystals and curious objects hung in every mullioned and leaded window, which were bordered by pretty shutters with hearts, spades, diamonds and clubs cut into them. A single climbing rose, bearing blooms of different colours, including blue, grew round the arched door and the thatch was pleasingly untidy and in need of renewal. Another window, hung with gold lace, peeped out of the centre and a straw owl at one corner of the roof seemed to regard with disapproval the two straw hares dancing at the other. From the quaintly painted pot, at the top of the one stout chimney, pink smoke climbed leisurely into the sky.
No trace or breath of winter touched that dwelling. Within the white picket fence that ran all around the impossibly twee cottage and its well-tended garden, not a fleck of snow had fallen. Early autumn still lingered there; even the light that bathed the stonework and shone in the windows was soft and romantic and considerably warmer than anywhere else in Mooncaster that day.
Outside the fence, the snow was deep and startling footprints had been made in it by prowling fiends. But someone, perhaps daring children or maybe even Malinda herself, had built a jolly-looking snowman, with coal eyes and twig arms raised in friendly welcome.
“I could so live there,” Maggie breathed.
“We got company,” Lee whispered. “Over there.”
He indicated with his eyes and they glanced to the right of the path. In the distance, through the trees, something was moving. It was a tall figure, three times their height and clothed from head to toe in flowing grey, spectral robes. They couldn’t tell what manner of creature it was. All they could see of it were six clawed, bony fingers sticking out of each long sleeve. A pointed hood concealed the face and its movements were oddly stiff and jerky.
“Keep movin’,” he said.
They tried not to look at it and hurried on, towards the cottage, but Spencer couldn’t help turning round. The grey figure was keeping pace with them. The next time he looked, it had moved closer.
Then Maggie spotted two more, through the trees on the left. Their long strides bore them quickly over the snowy ground. When they raised their arms to clatter and rip their claws through the branches, they were just blackened bones.
The teenagers ran and the towering spectres let out shrill screeches as they broke from the trees and gave chase into the glade. They moved with frightening speed and their claws came reaching.
Maggie felt them catch and pull at her T-shirt and she ran faster than she ever had. Spencer still had his stick and he brandished it desperately. One swing of a skeletal hand knocked it from his grasp and sent it flying. Lee held the unicorn skull at arm’s length, hoping it would ward the attackers off, but it had no effect.
The snow grew deeper quickly and running became difficult. Maggie could barely drag her feet through it. Then a hand punched her in the back and she fell. Spencer stopped and tried to help. Another shove sent him diving into the snow next to her. Two of the grey figures stomped closer and stood over them menacingly, whilst the other went after Lee.
Lee heard the cries of the others, but he wouldn’t stop. He had to go on. He had to get to that cottage. Only the death of Jangler and those Punchinellos mattered to him. Maggie and Spencer shouldn’t even be here. He’d told them to go back to the camp. They weren’t his responsibility. He always looked after number one. They knew the risks.
“No, they didn’t!” his conscience shouted at him. Even he didn’t know the risks here. Besides, she would have gone back to help them.
Snarling, he spun around on one foot. The third spectral figure came rushing up and its claws seized him by the throat. Lee was forced to his knees then thrust on to his back. Insidious, snaky laughter issued from the darkness within the pointed hood and the figure stooped over him.
“That will do!” a scolding voice rang out abruptly. “Fie on you! Shame!”
The grey figures reared up and stared across at the cottage. They hissed in annoyance and their hands made bony fists. Lee heard someone clapping in irritation.
“Shoo!” the voice said as though reprimanding naughty children. “I know who you are. You don’t affright me. Just what are you supposed to be? It’s the most guileless tomfoolery I�
�ve seen in many a mumming season. Now be off with you!”
Lee craned his head back and saw a sight that made his heart leap.
A brisk, elderly woman, in a pink and gold gown, gathered a spangled shawl about her shoulders and stepped through the garden gate. The silver walking stick she leaned upon to wade through the snow was tipped by an amber star.
The tall figures wavered uncertainly. The one standing over Lee took a hesitant step backwards and started chattering unhappily to itself.
The boy bared his teeth and kicked out with brute force. His feet struck one of the spectre’s legs. To his astonishment, it snapped. The figure warbled in dismay and tottered unsteadily before the robe fell away and Lee gaped at what was revealed.
The tall, sinister figure was a contraption made from wood. The legs were stilts and the claws were attached to long sticks, operated via strings by a small creature with a wobbly white head and yellow eyes.
Jub, the Bogey Boy, looked shamefaced and embarrassed to have been discovered. He gave the arms a final, feeble wave and tried to hiss and sound frightening, but it was no use. Looking down at Lee, he grinned sheepishly, showing all his babylike teeth. Then he dropped the false arms and hopped from the one remaining leg. The snow reached up to his nose, but he scampered away from the approaching old woman, burrowing a trench towards the trees.
The other two figures knew the game was up and they were striding as fast as their stilts could take them, until the one at the back tripped and went crashing into the other and they both collapsed in a bundle of splintering sticks and flapping volumes of grey cloth.
Slapping one another and cussing, only the tops of their heads were visible above the snow as they scurried after Jub.
Lee uttered some cusses of his own.
“Such silliness,” the old woman tutted. “What did they think they were doing? Oh, but look at you, poor dear. You must be frozen to the marrow in such inadequate attire. Why, the village boys wear more when they swim in the millpond in June!”