by Jane Yolen
“Ropes can trip them,” she said. “I realized that possibility when I climbed up in one.”
“We have our Singer of Spells.” His voice had an edge to it, but it trembled.
“Bog cotton in the ears. How quickly will they figure that one out? Or if she’s silenced by an arrow or a sword, what have you then? Small trickeries, cold iron, and mirrors? The horde will overrun you in a moment, and those not killed will be taken off to the Unseelie Court as slaves.”
He was silent. And then blurted out, “The Unseelie have trickery as well.”
“But the king knows all their tricks. He lived amongst them from the time he was small, and they think him weak.”
“He is weak!” Odds squeaked.
“You’re wrong,” said Snail. “He’s young. But youth is not a disease, nor is it a weakness. It’s a promise. And Aspen keeps his.”
Odds nodded. “But the women and children . . .”
“Stay behind,” she said.
“Not Dagmarra and her kind.”
“Someone will have to take care of Og,” she said.
“Someone will,” Odds said.
That was when she knew that she had won the battle with Odds.
But there was still the war.
17
ASPEN MAKES SOME MAGIC
By dark, Aspen figured they had collected over half the wood they would need. He gave new orders, putting most of his crew to work setting up pyramids of firewood stuffed with kindling all across the field in preparation for lighting. The remaining few kept gathering wood. Work slowed a bit as darkness fell, but the bright moon kept at least the pyramid builders working at a pace that Aspen thought might serve.
The moon was well up in the sky when Mishrath’s wagon finally rolled into camp. Molintien galloped ahead and when she spotted the king, leapt off her horse to greet him like a farm girl and not a well-bred queen’s lady-in-waiting.
“Sire,” she said, bowing, “he is not well.”
Aspen stopped stuffing twigs and leaves under a pile of wood and rushed to the wagon. Fal was trying to grab Mishrath and lift him out. The wizard, pale and shaky, waved off any assistance.
“I need no help from youngsters like you!” But even that sentence seemed to exhaust him, and he fell back into the straw.
“Fal, a moment,” Aspen said quietly, and the old forester bowed and stepped away from the wagon. “Molintien, start a fire. And when you see Croak, send him to me.”
They hurried away, and Aspen turned back to the wagon.
“Mishrath,” he said, and waited for the wizard to open his eyes. Then he waited a few more moments for them to focus. It took longer than he had hoped. “I understand pride. And I understand not wanting help.” He thought about Snail and how not so long ago he would have thought accepting help from her unacceptable. But now, he admitted to himself, I feel quite lost without her here. “However, we have no time for that. I need you to let Fal lift you from the wagon. You are going to rest by the fire. To warm your blood. For we must have all of your strength tomorrow.”
Mishrath peered up at him with his cloudy eyes. “There may not be much left, sire.”
“Then we are probably all doomed anyway.” But Aspen smiled when he said it and waved Fal back over.
This time, Mishrath nodded to the forester and stayed quiet as he was lifted from the wagon. He looked tiny against Fal’s broad chest, and Aspen thought, I hope I am not wrong to put all of my hopes in the care of this one old wizard. But then he remembered the stone in Mishrath’s voice just yesterday and he believed that with rest now, he could do what was needed.
I have to believe.
He followed Fal and Mishrath to where Molintien had started the small fire. Fal set the wizard down next to it, spreading his own cloak on the ground close by, before moving the old wizard onto it. Not to be outdone, Aspen took off his royal cloak, which had fur at the neck and the wrists, and covered Mishrath.
“Bring my saddle,” he said to Fal, “so that he has something to sit up against until he is completely warm and ready to sleep.”
“At once, sire,” Fal said as Aspen sat down by the fire next to the old wizard.
“So you have a plan then, young king?” Mishrath said, his voice rough and weary.
“Yes, I believe I do.”
“And you think Old Jack Daw won’t see it coming?” He frowned into the fire as if something he saw there displeased him. “He has counseled three kings, and survived centuries in a court that—I am sure you know—is particularly unforgiving.”
“I do not think he will guess it.” Aspen pulled the royal cloak down a little so it covered the wizard’s feet. He collected his thoughts, trying to think of the proper way to explain them. “Jack Daw,” he finally said, “has been playing a game where only he is allowed to move the players.”
Mishrath peered up at Aspen, his eyebrows lowered, his mouth quivering like a petulant child’s. “I don’t follow.”
Aspen spoke carefully. “He has known exactly how all the players in this war would react to his moves. So, in a sense, through his actions, he controls them and has moved their pieces into the positions he wants.”
“Ah,” Mishrath breathed. A smile began to gather on his lips. “And he thinks he knows what the Seelie king will do.”
Aspen nodded. “Of course he does. The Seelie king will ride into glorious battle with whatever forces he has left.” He thought of the one battle he had actually been in. Blood, death, chaos. And guilt. There had been nothing glorious about it. “Because that is what Seelie kings do. Honor before all else.” He took a deep breath. “But I am not just the Seelie king. I am the Hostage Prince. I was raised in the Unseelie Court. And I am going to use a few things that I learned in my years there, things I learned from Jack Daw himself, though he never knew he had taught me so well.”
“And those are?” Though Mishrath had been lying in a partial faint on the ground, he sat up now, atremble. Though with excitement or fear or just with the coldness of his own approaching death, Aspen did not know.
But one thing Aspen did understand—Mishrath had already made the mental leap to where he was, though it was good of the old wizard to let him say it out loud.
“Trickery,” Aspen said. “Trickery, lies, and deceit.”
Mishrath made a strange sound then, something between a wheeze and a throat clear. It took a moment, but Aspen finally recognized it. The old wizard was chuckling. It seemed to make him younger, stronger. “And illusion, do not forget illusion, the greatest deceit of all. It is why I am here.”
Aspen nodded. “Yes, my fine wizard. That is why you are here.”
Mishrath closed his eyes. Pulled the cloak a little closer around him. “Do not put me back in the wagon like an old man. I will stay here and doze by the fire, remembering days when I did this kind of thing for glory and adventure. I will gain strength through memory. Wake me when I am needed. “
Getting to his feet, Aspen whispered, “I will.”
At that very moment, Fal returned with the saddle. Aspen nodded again, this time in thanks, and at the same time saw that Croak was just coming from the forest with a load of wood.
“Stay a while with the old wizard,” Aspen said to Fal. “Help him sit up if that would be more comfortable.” Then he walked away to have a talk with Croak.
Croak was placing his wood on the ground, his back to the wizard’s wagon. But he was totally aware of the king’s presence at all times. When he turned, he bowed his head, all in a single movement.
“Croak,” Aspen began, thinking hard how to cushion what had to be said, then realizing Croak needed no cozening. “I have an impossible task for you and the other warriors.”
Croak smiled slowly.
Aspen could not tell if the smile was because he had used the word warriors, or because impossible was not in a war
rior’s vocabulary. Aspen pointed downhill. “We know that out there in the dark, enemy scouts approach. They cannot be allowed to cross the stream. No matter how they outnumber us, no matter if they outflank us, they cannot cross the stream.” He peered intensely at the old Toad Clan soldier. “Do you understand? They cannot be allowed to cross over. If they do, and find out how few we are and what we plan, then all is lost.”
Croak nodded. “I understand, sire.”
“Good. You will scout in two-man groups. When you spot their scouts, one from the group comes back for me.” Aspen gritted his teeth in what he hoped Croak would see as a carefree smile. “I am your reinforcements. I will repel the attackers whilst you make sure none slip past me. Do you understand?”
“Two-man groups. Retreat and reinforce. Repeat.” Croak spit on the ground. “I understand, sire.”
“And no one gets past the stream.”
Croak nodded. “None will pass the stream.”
“Now,” Aspen said, adopting a light tone that he did not feel, “I believe I promised you an army.” He called out, “Fal! Take Fayeth and Fennel with you and light the fires.” Fayeth and Fennel were the two maids. They will have some kitchen magic to help with the burning. “Light them all! Quickly, now!” Then he turned to Croak. “Do you see?”
Three at a time at first, and then more scattershot and separate, fires sprang to life on the sloping plain, like will o’ wisps in the season of Trout Rise. Not one or two or ten or twenty but . . .
“What do you see, Croak?”
Croak’s teeth glowed orange in the firelight as he smiled. “An army, sire.”
Aspen nodded. “Now the hard work begins. Gather your men. No one crosses the stream.”
Bowing without speaking, Croak turned and hurried away.
But Aspen was already gone, jogging to an unlit fire on the opposite side of the field from where Fal, Fayeth, and Fennel worked. He breathed sparks into the kindling and waved the fire to life. Then he ran to the next. And the next. Before long the entire field was alive with campfires. Not just will o’ wisps now, but the cook-fires of a thousand hungry warriors.
A great host camps here, Aspen told himself, saying a small spell that the words should make it so. But of course, he had not that sort of magic. It was only a wish.
Still, the trickery might suffice. It must suffice! For a while. At least for the time it takes for Snail to bring the real army. He thought about Snail. He could always count on her. It was Odds, that crafty old human, he worried about.
He thought about the trickery the skulker must have used to get the crones to do all his work for him. And why did he need the Sticksman so much that he had gone through all that? He had a sudden thought. What if the skulker hadn’t needed the Sticksman? What if he had needed to get the Sticksman out of the way? Or rather get the creature who became the Sticksman out of the way?
He had no idea who the Sticksman had been or why the skulker needed him gone, but the idea intrigued him. However, there was no time to think about that now. There was too much work to do. So he went back to the central fire where Mishrath slept on.
The civilians had gathered around that fire as well, most sprawled exhausted on the ground. Only Fal and Molintien were standing.
Even the moat troll was lying down, though he kept himself a safe distance from the fire. Aspen thought briefly of sending him to the stream, but feared it might complicate or compromise the trickery.
“Do not get too comfortable, my brave companions,” Aspen said to them in as kingly a fashion as possible, “for we still have a long night ahead.” There were some groans, quickly stifled. “I need you to keep the fires burning all the way till dawn.”
No one asked why, but Aspen knew they were curious. “If we can keep the scouts from getting too close, we should be able to convince the Unseelie army that we, too, have an army.”
“But in the morning—” one of the civilians began. Aspen didn’t see who it was before he interrupted.
“In the morning,” he said, “we will see how much magic Mishrath has left in him. Up now. Up and to the fires. Keep them lit; keep our hopes alive.”
They grumbled and stumbled as they all got back up to their feet, but they did their duty, spreading out into the darkness. All except the moat troll, who stayed put and stared sheepishly at his gigantic, mossy feet.
Oh, Aspen suddenly realized, he will be no help with the fires. Trolls hated fire.
“Troll,” Aspen said, “you are with me. There is a stream to visit.”
The troll’s aspect was suddenly almost jolly. It did not improve his looks at all.
And truth be told, Aspen thought, I may have need of him before this night is over. He sighed heavily, once again picturing the Battle of Bogborough, when last he had borne sword and flame into battle. I do not relish what I will need to do tonight. A very large and very quiet companion may be just what is needed. For the chaos. And for the guilt.
Aspen heard muffled footsteps approaching swiftly behind him. Turning, he saw Snarl, one of the Clan Wolf brothers, appear out of the darkness.
“Sire,” he said, his voice a guttural rattle. “We have contact. Mixed squad of bogles and Borderers belly-crawling toward the stream on our left flank.”
Aspen nodded to Snarl. Beckoned to the troll.
“Take me to them,” he said.
It was time to go to war.
18
SNAIL READIES FOR WAR
Before cleaning up the bowser, Snail went outside to speak with Snaggle and Snap. She found them by the front of the lead wagon. Snap was sitting on the wagon, along with Thridi and baby Og. Og was on Snap’s lap, wearing a rather large helmet that probably came from Snap’s saddlebag.
Og was grinning toothlessly and banging his fist on the helmet over and over again. It made the helmet ring, and probably his ears, too, but he sang out gleefully, “Ding! Ding! Ding!”
“Who knew troll babies were so cute,” Snap said.
Snaggle grunted in disgust. He and Dagmarra were on the ground beside the wagon, where Snaggle had been ignoring the baby while showing Dagmarra a few fancy cuts with his sword. When Dagmarra punched his arm with her fist, he laughed but rubbed at it with his other hand, so Snail knew the punch had left a mark.
Small but deadly, that’s Dagmarra, Snail thought.
“You two!” she called out, and it was clear that Snap and Snaggle knew who she was speaking to, for Snaggle immediately sheathed his sword, turned, and saluted her.
“M’lady.” His voice was firm and his eyes were firm, too. She gathered he’d slept well.
More slowly, Snap gave baby Og back into Thridi’s hands. “I think he’s made a deposit. . . .”
Indeed, Snail could smell it from there.
Dagmarra shook her head at Og. “You know you’re supposed to say when . . .” she began.
“Ding! Ding!” Og said. It was clearly the only thing on his mind at the moment.
Snap jumped down and gave Snail a quick salute as well. Even though he was younger than his uncle, he was not as sprightly. Nor as quick.
“Time to earn your keep,” Snail told them. “You two are the only true warriors here besides Dagmarra, who is . . . um . . . otherwise engaged. I need you to go with Thridi through the camp and choose all the strongest-looking men and boys . . .”
“And girls,” Dagmarra called over her shoulder as she lugged Og into the wagon to change his clouts. “Don’t you dare forget the girls. I know them. They are strong and smart and . . .”
Snail nodded and said, “And girls,” remembering Alith and what a warrior she’d been. “Begin teaching them the rudiments of war.”
“They already know the rudiments for ordinary folk: run, scream, fall, die,” Snaggle said, his voice without malice but with a kind of grave politeness. “I believe you mean, m’lady, we should teach t
hem some sort of defense.”
“Defense or offense, they need to know how best to handle weapons, how to bind themselves together to make the most of what they have, how to—”
“And how many years do we have to do this in, m’lady?” asked Snap. His tone wasn’t polite.
Snaggle cuffed him on the ear.
“You already know that,” she said wearily. “We only have today and the few days after, as we march to the aid of the king.” Her mouth was now thinned down in a line. Snap was tiresome and, she thought, deserved every cuff he got. “So best to start at once. I assume you’ve eaten already?”
They nodded. It could have meant either that they knew she assumed it or that they had actually eaten. Or any number of other things as well. She was learning it was hard to tell what warriors meant—or thought. For all they were experts with weapons, they weren’t practiced talkers. And they knew how to keep secrets.
“Then go. Have them make weapons out of whatever is handy, and you two take orders only from Odds or Dagmarra or the made woman who sings, Maggie Light. No one else. And—”
“And you, m’lady,” asked Snaggle, “where will you be?”
“Cleaning a filthy, unhealthy, and altogether disgustingly nasty rug,” she said. “Dagmarra will know where.”
“A rug, m’lady?” Her title in Snap’s mouth had turned into a whine.
Snaggle gave him another cuff on the ear. “We’ve got our orders. Are you a mouse or a warrior to squeak so?”
As she went into the wagon, she heard Snap’s retort. “No need to keep swatting the same ear, uncle, or I’ll soon be unable to hear any orders at all.” Presumably, Snaggle cuffed him again, because Snap added, “OW!”
THE BOWSER WAS drowsing uneasily on the floor of the twins’ room in the last wagon, the one in which Aspen had slept. Little runnels ran along his coarse hair, and every now and then he made a growling sound, as if dreaming of prey, though she doubted he ate anything.
The twins also drowsed, standing up in the semi-dark, looking just like two long capes hanging on separate pegs. Snail knew little would wake the two of them until nightfall, when they would rouse, eat, walk about by the backside of the wagons. She’d never understood why they were part of Odds’s troupe. They neither performed nor helped set up for a performance. They didn’t make the kind of magic that quieted mobs or turned away snoopers. They just . . . were.