by Garth Nix
Also, he could hear. He could hear his own heartbeat, beating a sharp tattoo of panic, but he could also hear the movement of the earth. But there was something else, as well, something that as his panic lessened, he realized was a voice, the voice of the Waldgeist.
What he heard was not words, at least not in any human language. It was the sound of the woods, of the wind, and the trees, and the birds, and the insects, somehow ordered and structured to become something that he could understand.
The Waldgeist of the primeval forest was whispering to him as it took him into its embrace. Its true heart was down in the tangled roots where he lay, not in the tree above. He could feel those roots now, twining around him, gripping him lightly, but ready to rend him apart should the spirit’s feelings change.
It wanted to know why he had awoken it, and for what purpose.
Ambrose told it, not bothering to open his mouth. It took his explanation and went into his mind for more, its presence like a sudden shadow on a summer’s day, cool and crisp as it slowly spread through his memories and mind. Ambrose’s panic shrank before this shadowy touch, and he grew quiet, almost asleep himself, the Waldgeist growing more awake.
As the tree spirit wandered in his thoughts, Ambrose relived them too, slowly and sleepily. All the wonders and horrors of his life, from his earliest recollections to the events of the last few days. All were looked at by the tree spirit, and as they progressed, in no particular order, Ambrose felt that each memory, and everything he had done or not done, was being weighed up and catalogued, added to the Waldgeist’s careful inventory of all the other living things in its forest domain.
Eventually, it finished looking. Ambrose was very tired by then, so tired that he could barely formulate the question that constituted his mission, visualizing each word in his mind as if he were writing it down on an order pad, the question carefully contained within the rectangular grid.
No answer came. Ambrose tried to ask the question again, but he was too tired. Fear and panic had exhausted him, but now he felt a different weariness. He was warm, and comfortable, and the tree roots that cradled him felt as comfortable as the ancient armchair by the fire in the bothy, the one with the sheepskins laid over its creased and faded leather upholstery.
Ambrose slept, and did not dream.
When he awoke, it was with a start. There was bright sunshine on his face, making him blink, and the blue sky above was bordered with green. He sat up and saw that he was at the foot of the king-oak, which was once again bent and bowed by the passage of time. There was no sign of his revolver or athame, but when he stood up and checked himself over, everything else seemed to be unchanged. The grimoire was still in his tunic, as was the map. There was some earth caught under his Sam Browne belt, and his uniform was somewhat mussed, but that was all.
Everything else looked normal. There was no risen disc of trees, and though he could feel the Waldgeist, it was very faint. It slept again, and was sleeping very deep. Whether he had convinced it or not to remain quiescent, it would take far more than the blood of two thumbs and the ritual he had used to wake it now.
Ambrose frowned, but it was a merry frown. He didn’t really understand what had happened, but he knew his object had been achieved. He also felt surprisingly good, almost as happy in himself as he had been in the far-off, golden days before the War.
He clapped his hand against the king-oak in friendly farewell and set off along the path. Several paces along, he was surprised to find himself whistling. He frowned again, and stopped, standing still on the path. He couldn’t remember when he had last felt like whistling.
There was a rustle up ahead. Ambrose’s attention immediately returned to the present. He snuck off the path and crouched down behind a lesser but still substantial oak, regretting the loss of his revolver. Someone was coming very cautiously up the path, and it could be a German anarchist as easily as Kennett, and even if it was Kennett, Ambrose couldn’t be sure of his intentions, and he was no longer so ready to just let Kennett kill him. There would be time enough to join his friends.
‘Ambrose?’
It was Kennett. Ambrose peered around the trunk. Kennett was coming along the path, and he wasn’t brandishing a weapon. But very strangely, he was no longer wearing the gray suit and homburg. He was in tweeds, with a deerstalker cap, and there was something about his face … a partially healed scar under his eye that hadn’t been there …
‘Ah,’ said Ambrose. He stepped out from behind the tree and raised his hand. ‘Hello, Kennett. How long have I been away?’
Kennett smiled, a smile that as always contained no warmth whatsoever, and was more an indication of sardonic superiority than any sense of humor.
‘A year and a day,’ he said. ‘Just as the grimoire said.’
‘Not the copy you gave me,’ said Ambrose.
‘Naturally,’ replied Kennett. ‘You might have refused to go. But from the whistling, the general spring of the step and so forth, I presume the cure has been efficacious?’
‘I do feel … whole,’ admitted Ambrose. He paused for a moment, eyes downcast, thinking of his own reactions. ‘And I believe … I am no longer afraid to be underground.’
‘That’s good,’ said Kennett. ‘Because we have a job to do, and I’m afraid a great deal of it is deep under the earth. High, but deep. I’m not fond of the Himalayas myself, but what can you do?’
‘Was there actually a German adept who wanted to raise the spirit?’ asked Ambrose as they began to walk together back along the path.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Kennett. ‘It’s doubtful he would have succeeded, and the timing was not quite what we said, but Lady S thought we might as well try to get two birds with one stone. The new doctor brought it to her attention, that this old spirit had a two-fold nature, that as well as trampling the undeserving and so on, it also traditionally sometimes healed the sick and those of “broken mind.”’
‘Broken mind,’ repeated Ambrose. ‘Yes. I suppose that I wasn’t really getting any better where I was. But those demons—’
‘They were the Emir’s,’ interrupted Kennett. ‘Forced our hand. Couldn’t be helped.’
‘I see,’ said Ambrose, with a swift sideways glance at Kennett’s face. He still couldn’t tell if the man was lying.
They walked the rest of the way out of the wood in silence. At the road, there was a green Crossley 20/25 waiting, with Jones and Jones leaning on opposite sides of the bonnet, each carefully watching the surrounding countryside. They nodded to Ambrose as he walked up, and he thought that Jones the Larger might even have given him the merest shadow of a wink.
Ambrose’s yataghan was on the floor behind the front seat and there was a large cardboard box tied with a red ribbon sitting in the middle of the backseat. Kennett indicated the box with an inclination of his head.
‘For you,’ he said. ‘Present from Lady S.’
Ambrose undid the ribbon and opened the box. There was a velvet medal case inside, which he did not open; a silver hip flask engraved with his name beneath a testimonial of thanks from an obscure manufacturer of scientific instruments in Nottingham; and a card with a picture of a mountaineer waving the Union Jack atop a snow-covered mountain.
Ambrose flipped open the card.
‘Welcome back,’ he read aloud. ‘With love from Auntie Hester.’
Holly and Iron
‘SIX MEN-AT-ARMS, ALL MOUNTED,’ REPORTED Jack. He paused to spit out some nutshells, a remnant of his transition from squirrel-shape to human form, before he added, ‘Three in front of the litter, three behind.’
‘And the litter bearers?’ asked Merewyn. She didn’t look at Jack as he put his clothes back on, her sharp blue eyes intent on the party that was making its way along the old Roman road that cut straight through the valley, only a hundred yards below their hiding place high on the densely wooded slope.
‘Slaves,’ said Jack. ‘Our folk, from the look of them. They all wear braided holly charms on their ankles. So ther
e is no ironmaster hiding among them.’
‘An ironmaster can stand holly for a short time, longer if it is not against their skin,’ corrected Merewyn. ‘Or they might make false holly from paper or painted wood. You’re absolutely sure?’
Jack nodded. He was a big man, six feet tall and very broad in the shoulder. Even in his smallest squirrel-form he was almost two feet tall, and he could also shape himself as a large boar or bear. Even so, he was a head shorter and fifty pounds lighter than his younger brother, known as Doublejack, who stood silently by, awaiting Merewyn’s instructions. Doublejack would probably take the shape of a cralle dog – a huge beast the size of a pony – if they were to attack the Norman in the litter and his guards.
Jack and Doublejack were the only shape-shifters in Merewyn’s band. It was a very rare talent, found only among the Inglish. It was an ability not often used for the most part, as a shifter needed to eat a huge amount of fresh meat upon returning to their human form, something not easily obtained. Even now, Jack was eyeing the freshly dressed deer hanging by its hind leg from a nearby branch. Going down in size made him less hungry than going up, but he would still eat a haunch or two, leaving the rest for Doublejack to gorge on later.
‘Six men-at-arms,’ mused Merewyn aloud. ‘A curious number. Why only six? Everyone knows we’re in these woods. They look sun-dark, too, maybe pullani mercenaries … not household troops, which is also curious. And there is something strange about that litter. I cannot truly say I sense it, but I suspect some Norman magic is at work. Something of cold iron … yet I cannot be sure … Robin?’
Robin shook her head impatiently, indicating she felt no Norman magic at work. She did not want to feel any, so she did not focus her full concentration on the litter.
‘Do we attack or not?’ asked Robin impatiently.
Like the men and her half sister Merewyn, Robin was dressed in a heavy woolen tunic over leather-booted hose, but apart from the clothes neither she nor Merewyn tried to disguise their femininity. Both had long hair, braided back and pinned with silver and amber, offering some protection against Norman magic workings and helpful for their own Inglish magic.
Silver and amber looked perfectly normal against Merewyn’s blond hair. She was all Inglish, tall and muscular, a fair-faced warrior woman who could wrestle down a stag and stab it in the neck, or send a cloth-yard shaft from her longbow two hundred yards through a Norman man-at-arms, brigantine and all.
Robin, to her eternal embarrassment and shame, looked more Norman than Inglish herself. She was shorter and stockier than her sister, dark-haired and gray-eyed, and always very brown from their outdoor life. She took after her mother, her father’s second wife. The one he had stolen from her Norman father, unwittingly setting in train not only his own death but also the loss of his kingdom to that self-same Norman, and the chain of events that led to his two daughters lurking in the fringe of trees above a valley, the elder leading a band of what could variously be described as bandits, rebels, or the last remnants of the army of the true King of Ingland.
‘I am uneasy,’ said Merewyn. She looked up at the sky. The sun was still a full disc, but low and near the western hills. Two ravens circled overhead, black shapes against the darkening sky. ‘We will lose the light very soon, and we do not know who is in the litter.’
‘Only six guards,’ said Robin. ‘It can’t be anyone important … or dangerous.’
‘It could be someone confident enough to need no larger escort,’ said Merewyn. ‘An ironmaster hiding his charms and devices until the last.’
‘Let’s attack before it is dark,’ urged Robin. ‘We haven’t had a chance like this for weeks.’
Merewyn didn’t answer. Robin frowned, then tugged at her sister’s sleeve.
‘This’ll be the third Norman we’ve let go if you don’t give the order! What’s wrong with you?’
‘There is nothing wrong, Robin,’ said Merewyn softly. ‘Knowing when not to attack is as important to a leader as being up front swinging a sword.’
‘That’s not leading!’ snapped Robin. ‘This is leading!’
She snatched the horn from Merewyn’s shoulder and before her sister could stop her, blew a ringing peal that echoed across the valley. That done, she darted forward, drawing her sword as she ran.
The horn blast set the well-prepared ambush in motion. The heavy reverberation of axes on wood sounded ahead of the Normans’ party. A few seconds later, a great tree came twisting down across the path, testament to the woodcutters’ skill in keeping it balanced all afternoon on the thinnest spire of uncut trunk.
As the tree crashed, archers stepped out from their hiding places on the edge of the cleared area on the side of the path and began to shoot at the guards’ horses. The guards responded by charging the archers, bellowing oaths and cursing. Unusually, the litter bearers didn’t simply run away, toppling the litter, but set it down carefully before sprinting off between the trees.
Robin ran on the heels of a shaggy, slavering dog that stood higher than her shoulder. Merewyn and Jack came behind her, with a dozen of their band, all armed with swords, spears, or bill-hooks. They were the blocking force, to prevent an escape back along the path, as the fallen tree prevented any escape the other way.
But there was no attempt to flee. One of the guards was dead on the ground, killed instantly by an arrow that found a chink in his mail coif. Two more were trapped under dead or dying horses. The remaining three had realized the impossibility of riding down archers hiding in the forest fringe and had turned back.
‘Surrender!’ called Robin. She was out of breath from the mad charge down the slope and had to repeat the call. ‘Surrender!’
The three men-at-arms looked at the archers who were once again stepping out of the green shadows, at the huge cralle dog that chose that moment to howl, and at the fifteen armed bandits approaching.
‘You will die if you try to charge through,’ said Merewyn loudly, correctly observing the intention announced by the tensing of the men’s arms and the flick of their horse’s heads. ‘We will give quarter.’
Two of the men-at-arms looked at the third, who nodded and threw down his sword. His companions did likewise. Then they dismounted and stood by their horses’ heads, casting dark looks at Robin and Merewyn and nervous glances at Doublejack, who was sniffing around the litter.
Merewyn made a signal and the archers moved closer, arrows still nocked and ready to loose. Six of her men raced forward and threw the men-at-arms to the ground, binding their hands as they also removed their daggers, boot-knives, and, in the case of the leader, a tiny knife scabbarded in the back of his gauntlet.
‘Who is in the litter?’ asked Robin. There had been no movement from it, not even the twitch of a curtain pulled aside. Doublejack was still sidling around it, his huge nose wrinkled much as a human forehead might frown in thought.
‘An old Norman merchant,’ said one of the men-at-arms, the one the others had looked to. He had the faded, crescent scar of a slave tattoo on his cheek. ‘Going to the baths at Aquae Sulis.’
‘Not until he’s paid his toll, he’s not,’ said Robin. She strode over to the litter, hacked off the knots that held the curtain to the frame, pulled the rich but travel-stained velvet drapes aside, and trampled them under her heels.
There was a man inside the litter, sitting upright, wrapped in a thick cloak of blue felt, the hood pulled up and forward, so his face was shadowed. He had a chess-table set before him, of dark mahogany and ivory. There was a game in progress, though no one sat opposite him, slate-gray pieces in movement against softer, smaller ones of cherry-wood.
‘You are our prisoner,’ said Robin. She extended her sword arm, the point hovering a few inches from the man’s hooded face. ‘And we will want a suitable ransom. What is your name?’
Instead of answering, the man lifted one of the slate-gray knights from the chessboard. Robin had only a moment to register that all the gray pieces were knights when she suddenly fel
t her sword twist violently out of her hand and hurtle up and behind her, almost impaling Doublejack.
Robin immediately snatched her necklace-garrote of holly beads from her belt, but before she could do anything with it, the Norman flung down the gray knight. As it hit the ground, there was a clap of thunder, strange and terrible in the still air. Heat washed over Robin, as if she’d stepped into a forge, and there was no longer a chess piece between her and the palanquin, but an eight-foot-tall warrior, made entirely of iron, bearing a sword of blue-edged star-steel and a kite shield green with verdigris.
The iron warrior pushed his green shield at Robin, a blow that would have knocked her to the ground if she had not flung herself backward. Losing her garrote in the fall, she rolled and wriggled away as the iron warrior stomped toward her, its feet leaving deep impressions in the soft forest soil.
Robin heard Merewyn shouting, ‘Flee!’ but her sister did not follow her own orders. Instead, she rushed forward to help Robin up. The ground was damp and the leaf mulch slippery, and they slid apart as Robin got to her feet, with Merewyn behind her.
In that instant, the iron warrior was upon them. Merewyn tried to pivot on guard as it slammed its iron shield toward her, but it was too quick. The iron rim of its shield caught her full in the neck. There was a sickening crack, all too like a snapping branch, and Merewyn was hurled to the ground. She lay there, her head at an impossible angle.
Robin could do nothing but run. There were thunderclaps all around as the ironmaster threw out his chess-pieces, iron warriors rising up where the knights fell. Robin ducked, weaved, and zigzagged to the treeline, with iron warriors smashing their way through saplings, shrubs, and bushes toward her.
She paused when she reached the trees, twisting back to take a look. The nearest iron warrior was a dozen paces away, allowing Robin a few seconds’ grace to take in the scene before she had to run again.
A full dozen iron warriors stalked the clearing, and there were two more standing in front of the palanquin, their shields raised to protect the ironmaster from archery. Not that there was anyone shooting at him. Merewyn’s band had vanished like a summer shower. The only signs that they had ever been there were the men-at-arms working away at their bonds – and Merewyn’s body, a dozen paces from the palanquin.