it that, for She never slept), at the base of the Spire, where she received the reports of the Meepers, and gave orders to Her army.
“A new town, Mistress,” replied Oroch, in his mewing, high-pitched tone. “Bevallan, they call it. A small place, without walls or castle. Only a tower, and that is of no great size. They have discovered peace in your absence, Mistress.”
“It will not be a discovery they enjoy much longer,” spat the Ragwitch. “But what of their Magic: their famous Magi, all cluttered up with Staves and Rings and Talismans; those Wizards, whose flesh is foul and blood rancid?”
“None, Mistress,” chuckled Oroch, bandages whipping in the breeze as he laughed. “The Art is forgotten, as You were…” He stopped in mid-sentence, dropping to his knees as the Ragwitch towered above him to encircle his puny, bandaged neck with one of Her hands.
“Forgotten?” hissed the Ragwitch, spit bubbling between the rows of Her needle-teeth. “Then I shall remind them, will I not, Oroch, my Architect? I shall remind them, and myself remember the sweetness of their flesh.”
Behind Her, the stone shapes of the Angarling boomed, feeling their Mistress’ anger. The Gwarulch moved about uneasily, careful to avoid the rocking, moving Angarling, as they drew closer to the Spire. The Meepers, high above, twirled and dove about the Spire, revelling in the prospect of bloodshed.
Watching through the Ragwitch’s eyes, Julia shuddered, and once again started to do sums in her head. Even the thirteen times table was preferable to the Ragwitch’s memories, presented to Julia as they were with every nuance of sight, hearing, feeling…and taste.
“Assemble the Gwarulch chieftains and the Old Meeper,” the Ragwitch instructed Oroch. “I will…talk…to the Angarling.”
Julia breathed a mental sigh of relief as the memories of pillage and feasting faded, to be replaced by a strong memory of the Angarling, still as stone, being woken by a young, human Witch, on her first small steps to power…Surely not the Ragwitch, thought Julia, as she felt her host clumsily lumbering towards the Angarling, those straw-stuffed legs straight and never bending, the puffy three-fingered hand outstretched to caress her oldest allies—the Stone Knights of Drowned Angarling.
“Tomorrow,” She said, touching the white stone of the nearest Angarling, caressing the lines of the frozen face. “Tomorrow shall be death and ruin, and the sun will sink all bloody in a sky as red as fire.”
“The sun is high, my stomach grumbles, and I think it’s lunchtime,” said Aleyne, pausing to let Paul catch up to him. They were climbing up a hill again, where the forest grew less thickly, but Paul was always slow uphill.
“I also think Rhysamarn is only a little way away, and at its foot, there is the Ascendant’s Inn. And since…”
“We lost our packs,” interrupted Paul, “we might as well go on because there’s nothing for lunch anyway.”
“Exactly,” smiled Aleyne, who hadn’t missed Paul’s bad temper, or the slight quiver of his lower lip. “How are your feet?”
“Sore,” grumbled Paul, who was now well over the night’s dangers, and more concerned with his various discomforts. Trust Julia to get kidnapped to a place without buses, he thought sourly, as Aleyne set off again, trying to pick the easiest way up the hill. And every “adventure” I have is always without food, and in forests full of prickles and thorns…
Paul was still thinking about thistles, because they were the most immediate nuisance, when Aleyne suddenly stopped ahead of him. Paul looked up from the ground, and saw that the trees no longer rose up to the sky, and only a few meters farther on lay the top of the hill—the real top, and not just another tantalizing close ridge.
“Well,” said Aleyne. “We’re there—or near enough.” Paul rushed up the last few meters, onto the flat rock where Aleyne gazed to the east. They were
“A new town, Mistress,” replied Oroch, in his mewing, high-pitched tone. “Bevallan, they call it. A small place, without walls or castle. Only a tower, and that is of no great size. They have discovered peace in your absence, Mistress.”
“It will not be a discovery they enjoy much longer,” spat the Ragwitch. “But what of their Magic: their famous Magi, all cluttered up with Staves and Rings and Talismans; those Wizards, whose flesh is foul and blood rancid?”
“None, Mistress,” chuckled Oroch, bandages whipping in the breeze as he laughed. “The Art is forgotten, as You were…” He stopped in mid-sentence, dropping to his knees as the Ragwitch towered above him to encircle his puny, bandaged neck with one of Her hands.
“Forgotten?” hissed the Ragwitch, spit bubbling between the rows of Her needle-teeth. “Then I shall remind them, will I not, Oroch, my Architect? I shall remind them, and myself remember the sweetness of their flesh.”
Behind Her, the stone shapes of the Angarling boomed, feeling their Mistress’ anger. The Gwarulch moved about uneasily, careful to avoid the rocking, moving Angarling, as they drew closer to the Spire. The Meepers, high above, twirled and dove about the Spire, revelling in the prospect of bloodshed.
Watching through the Ragwitch’s eyes, Julia shuddered, and once again started to do sums in her head. Even the thirteen times table was preferable to the Ragwitch’s memories, presented to Julia as they were with every nuance of sight, hearing, feeling…and taste.
“Assemble the Gwarulch chieftains and the Old Meeper,” the Ragwitch instructed Oroch. “I will…talk…to the Angarling.”
Julia breathed a mental sigh of relief as the memories of pillage and feasting faded, to be replaced by a strong memory of the Angarling, still as stone, being woken by a young, human Witch, on her first small steps to power…Surely not the Ragwitch, thought Julia, as she felt her host clumsily lumbering towards the Angarling, those straw-stuffed legs straight and never bending, the puffy three-fingered hand outstretched to caress her oldest allies—the Stone Knights of Drowned Angarling.
“Tomorrow,” She said, touching the white stone of the nearest Angarling, caressing the lines of the frozen face. “Tomorrow shall be death and ruin, and the sun will sink all bloody in a sky as red as fire.”
“The sun is high, my stomach grumbles, and I think it’s lunchtime,” said Aleyne, pausing to let Paul catch up to him. They were climbing up a hill again, where the forest grew less thickly, but Paul was always slow uphill.
“I also think Rhysamarn is only a little way away, and at its foot, there is the Ascendant’s Inn. And since…”
“We lost our packs,” interrupted Paul, “we might as well go on because there’s nothing for lunch anyway.”
“Exactly,” smiled Aleyne, who hadn’t missed Paul’s bad temper, or the slight quiver of his lower lip. “How are your feet?”
“Sore,” grumbled Paul, who was now well over the night’s dangers, and more concerned with his various discomforts. Trust Julia to get kidnapped to a place without buses, he thought sourly, as Aleyne set off again, trying to pick the easiest way up the hill. And every “adventure” I have is always without food, and in forests full of prickles and thorns…
Paul was still thinking about thistles, because they were the most immediate nuisance, when Aleyne suddenly stopped ahead of him. Paul looked up from the ground, and saw that the trees no longer rose up to the sky, and only a few meters farther on lay the top of the hill—the real top, and not just another tantalizing close ridge.
“Well,” said Aleyne. “We’re there—or near enough.” Paul rushed up the last few meters, onto the flat rock where Aleyne gazed to the east. They were
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