Witch King E-Book

Simon Kewin

• Herausgeber: Stormcrow Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

The war for Andar begins…
The mighty river An freezes from shore to shore, and the army of horrors from Angere marches across to devour peaceful and beautiful Andar. Cait, Hellen and the others head north, hoping to slow the invasion. At Islagray, Ashen battles to make sense of the reunited Shadow Grimoire, seeking a way to turn the undain’s necromancy against itself. Fighting dark magic with dark magic is a grim and dangerous road.

Meanwhile, in our world, Fer evades Genera and the undain as she undertakes a desperate mission to sever the supply of Spirit fuelling the armies of Angere.

Unlikely friends rise to the skies, and hidden enemies wait to betray Cait and Fer. With every defeat, Andar fades. And at Islagray, the heart of the land, the last free place, the Song can barely be heard over the rising tide of war.

Leseprobe

For Rosie, the third part of my own magical trilogy.

Table of Contents

1. Howl Hill

2. Witch Hunt

3. A Single Word Different

4. Bethany Weerd

5. Hyrn's Oak

6. Smoke on the Water

7. The Lord of Misrule

8. The Ice Fair

9. Blood on the Ice

10. Hyrn's Oak

11. The High Walls of Caer L'dun

12. Voices in the Dark

13. To the Centre of the City

14. The Shadow Town Hall

15. A Maze of Streets

16. Leviathan

17. Unquiet Spirits

18. Xoster

19. Crashing to the Ice

20. Across the An

21. Witching Hour

22. Witch King

23. Ran

24. The Fate of More Than One World

25. The Orchard of Witches

Landmarks

Title Page

Dedication

Text

Copyright Page

Table of Contents

Cover

1. Howl Hill

Andar

Hobbe stepped into the blur of the snowstorm. The wind from the north cut through him despite all the fur and cloth he'd muffled himself in. The hard, cold air took his breath away, hurt his lungs. The first true blast of winter. The mountain peaks around him were invisible, their lines wiped away by slanting snow. Even Howl Hill, its bulk towering behind his ramshackle hut, was gone.

He waded rather than walked through the snowfall. It was already up to his knees. He'd known for months a hard winter was coming. You didn't live in the wilds of the north without getting a feel for the place. Summers were dazzling in their beauty, but winters were brutal. They were the price you paid. A price he'd met happily for many years, enjoying his solitude. He could sit for a whole day and watch the shifting light washing across the waters of the An, and no one would disturb him. He could wander the woods for hours and see only fleeing deer, hear only the racketing, chattering birds in the treetops.

But winters, now. Winters were to be endured. When the light faded and the cold came, his old bones ached. Sometimes, when he tried to rise in the morning, he felt like he'd frozen solid overnight. He hoped he'd collected enough provisions to last through to spring. He'd gathered twigs and sticks from the evergreen woods all summer, as he always did. Enough to keep his log fire smouldering through winter days and nights.

Water, at least, would be plentiful.

If he stayed healthy, and didn't slip on the ice and smash leg or arm, the only problem he had was finding enough to eat. Again, over the years, he'd learned to stock up during the long, warm weeks of summer, the brief fruitful days of autumn. He had a barrel full of apples plucked from his stunted little orchard. He had a larder hung with salted meat: fish pulled from the An and even a few rabbits or martens caught in the woods. He'd cooked up cauldrons of bilberries and hurtleberries to make a sticky purple paste. A precious taste of sweetness for the darkest days. He had honey and roots and even some hardy green vegetables that could grow through the winter if he kept the worst of the snow off them.

Yes, he was well-stocked. But he couldn't afford to take chances. It only took an extra month of cold weather to make all the difference between surviving and dying a lonely death. He was old. Some day he'd have to leave the log cabin he'd built with his own hands. Leave his little garden and his orchard and the place he sat to look out over the waters. Put it all behind him and head south to civilisation. To Guilden, most likely, the city he'd been born in. Teeming, troublesome Guilden that he'd fled as a young man, vowing never to return.

Once a year he had visitors from the city. Three bearded and bedraped mancers would drift up the An, their boat moving against the current without sail or oar to propel it. They always came ashore near his little hut, and set up their brass telescopes and astrolabes on the flat table of land at the foot of Howl Hill. Despite his love of solitude, and despite the pang of alarm that still rang through him when he saw them coming, he'd grown to look forward to those brief visits. The mancers were stern and talked little, but he could get news from them, find out what was occurring in the wide world. He found it pleasing to know that the hubbub of life was going on and that he was isolated from it, safe from it. That no one cared, also, who or what he was.

There'd been a young mancer this year who'd been unusually talkative. He'd stood apart while the two older men – and they were all men of course – took their careful readings of the advancing snow line on the slopes and consulted their battered black books of charts and tables. Hobbe and the young mancer – Ash? Ashen? – had fallen into a halting conversation while the older mancers bickered over something in their observations.

“Why do they argue?” Hobbe had asked.

The young mancer was tall and spindly beneath his robes and cloaks. His long hair was wild, like a dandelion's seed-head. His expression was amused as he replied. “They can't agree what their readings mean.”

Hobbe had glanced up at the peak. Howl Hill was a constant presence in his life and he'd grown used to its moods. In the old days only the triangular peak was dusted with white at the autumn equinox. This time half the mountain was under snow. He'd already seen two or three avalanches exploding off distant slopes.

“The weather is changing,” said Hobbe. “A hard winter is coming. Don't need to consult charts to see that.”

“How hard do you think?” asked the young mancer. A clear note of concern coloured his voice.

“Hard enough to freeze the An for miles out. Each year I have to walk farther and farther to reach open water.”

The young mancer looked thoughtful for a moment. “Perhaps you should come south with us. Come to Guilden for the winter at least. There's room enough on the boat.”

Hobbe shrugged. “I like it up here.”

“But how do you even survive? The winter must be cruel.”

For a moment, Hobbe nearly explained. A part of him longed to tell someone what he'd done, why he'd fled the world. He'd been about the same age as this young mancer, studying, like him, the arcane arts. But Hobbe had done terrible things. Everyone knew the ancient tales of the necromancers of Angere and what they'd achieved. As a boy Hobbe had been fascinated by old tales of the creatures walking across the ice in the high north. Ignoring the sternest warnings of his elders, he'd researched the ancient magics. Dabbled.

There were said to be many old books kept at the Witches' Isle that might have helped, but he had no access to them. Instead he'd pieced together what few scraps of lore he could, filling in the gaps for himself. His attempts to reproduce Ilminion's work had gone hideously wrong. The young woman he'd worked on hadn't died by his hand, but the screaming, bloody creature that returned to life, begging for release from her agonies, had been his doing. Even now, decades later, he woke from nightmares, soaked with sweat, panting as if he were being chased.

But in that moment he'd seen himself through her eyes. Felt the horror, the hate. In disgust at what he'd done he'd turned away from it. Given the poor girl the release she begged for. Burned his notes and books. Then fled north for a life of solitude. An exile, a punishment.

All this he very nearly confessed to the young mancer. Instead, looking away, Hobbe simply said, “I like the peace.”

The young mancer nodded, a thoughtful look on his face, but didn't reply.

Of course, the mancers only came to discover whether the winter would be cold enough for an Ice Fair on the river at Guilden. Once the ritual had served another purpose, a more serious purpose. The people had needed to know if they'd be safe from nightmares creeping south in the dead of winter. Now the mancers' ceremony was merely a part of the Midwinter festivities. They came and took their readings and, if it were cold enough, they'd announce to the cheering people that there would be a fair.

Hobbe well remembered the festivities from when he was a boy: those magical few days when arenas and stalls and games and races were set up on the ice and people set aside their old lives for a time. Heady, wild days when laws didn't apply because they celebrated in a place that wasn't a place – the river – and in a time that wasn't a time – the gap between the end of the old year and the start of the new. One year, an uncle had been voted the Lord of Misrule, and Hobbe and his cousins had been at the head of the bonfire procession, assigned a series of jokes and tricks to play on people over the three days. And then, when it was over, the good folk of Guilden went back to their lives and became the people they were for the rest of the year.

Shaking his head at these memories, Hobbe worked his way down the slope to the river bank. In the summer it was alive with the chirrup of invisible insects. Sometimes a bright purple butterfly would flit around, sipping at the tiny yellow flowers. That was gone. The slope was a sheet of snow, treacherous to descend. He took it slowly. If he broke a leg here he'd struggle to crawl back to his hut. He had his stoutest fishing-pole with him. These days it was as much a staff, a crook, to keep him upright as he worked his way forward. Once out onto the ice he would head for open water. Fish caught now meant a day or two more he wouldn't have to dip into his supplies.

He reached the edge of the river without mishap. This was the place the mancers had left after their fortnight of observations, climbing into their miraculous boat to float back to Guilden. Only the young one had looked troubled, constantly glancing around him as if expecting attack, peering into the frozen north or westward across the An. Hobbe had watched them leave with something like regret. If his life had gone differently, if he hadn't made the mistakes he'd made, this might have been him. A wise, revered mancer of Guilden, bearing glad tidings to the rapturous crowds that there would be an Ice Fair. But it could never be. That bridge had been swept away a long time ago.

He stepped onto the ice, adopting the foot-sliding walk he always used on frozen ground. He'd find the water and see if he could pluck out a fish or two. He slid along for an hour without coming to the edge. Occasionally he reached out with his pole to tap, terrified of stepping onto thin ice and crashing through into the An. The river remained as solid as stone. How far out was he? How deep was the water beneath his feet? He tried not to think about it.

There were serpents in the depths. Colossal creatures that would drag down any boat attempting the crossing. Even the mancers, when they sailed from Guilden, clung to the banks, following the line of each inlet and headland so they could stay in shallow waters. Were the monsters there now, rolling through the depths beneath his feet? The thought sent a shudder through him. Still there was no end in sight to the ice. He kept sliding forward, part of him wanting to turn around, part of him hating wasting all that effort for no gain.

He walked for three hours before finally deciding to turn back. There was no sign of open water. Numbness had crept through his toes and turned his legs to ice. He wasn't going to find any fish. He suddenly felt very exposed, very alone. A cold, old man alone on the frozen waters of the An, many miles from the safety of land.

He turned around, and it was then he slipped. His frozen limbs, refusing to work properly, locked into place, overbalancing him. There was a moment of disorientation as he fell. A sickening thud of pain thumped through him, and ice filled his brain.

When he woke it was dark. How long had he lain on the ice? Panicking that he might be frozen into place he pushed himself upward. His head swam for a moment at the effort. A patch of darkness marred the place where his head had rested. He touched his temple and found the wound. The blood had frozen solid.

As he struggled it came to him that he'd had enough. He should have given up and gone south with the mancers when he had the chance. He was too old and frail for such a hard life. Next year, if he survived the winter, he would sail with them to Guilden where it was safe and warm. Perhaps he would admit his crimes. There wasn't much they could do to him now. But, one way or another, he would find some peace. He'd paid for what he'd done, even if he'd punished himself. Surely that counted for something.

He stood. A full moon hung low in the western sky, lighting the ice with a misty silver glow. He breathed more mist when he exhaled. The mountains of Andar were visible in the distance behind him, a faint saw-edge line of peaks against the hard stars. How far had he come? The ice stretched westward as far as he could see, moonlight reflecting dully off it. It didn't seem possible. There would be no more fish this winter.

He was about to turn away, begin the long trudge back to the banks of Andar, when he caught a glimpse of something out on the ice. A faint light from the west, flickering yellow. How could that be? No one else would be out there on the frozen river in the middle of the night.

Hobbe stood and watched as more lights twinkled into existence. A line of them, stretching upriver and downriver as far as he could see, countless in number. The lights bobbed and flickered.

Torches. Behind them, rank upon rank, came more torches, and yet more.

Panicky now, half-running and half-sliding, Hobbe headed for Andar. But he knew it was useless. In a few moments he could hear them: the clanking metal, the huffing breaths, the stomp, stomp of their feet. The ice shook to the sound of their passing. He glanced over his shoulder and saw them. This was no Midwinter tale, no legend from the old days. The undain of Angere were coming. An army of them. A vast, wide army.

He stopped. He was already exhausted. He would never reach the banks before they overtook him. He would never set foot in the beautiful woods of Andar again. Perhaps it was justice after all this time. Retribution for his ancient crime. It occurred to him that maybe this was what he'd been seeking all along. Perhaps he'd simply sought judgement from the sorcerous creatures that he'd tried, in his vanity, to create.

Hobbe slumped to the ice and waited for them to reach him, knowing he would be the first of many to die in the invasion of Andar.

2. Witch Hunt

Manchester, England

Clara Sweetley fixed each member of Genera's Board with a questioning stare, waiting for each to be cowed into silence.

The boardroom occupied the entire top floor of Beetham Tower in the centre of Manchester. The clutter of the city's roofs and the hills and plains beyond were visible all around. On rainy, foggy days they lowered the flexible screens and showed video from various Genera feeds around the world. Scenes of war, riot, fleeing refugees. Today, with the sun shining on the city for once, they'd make do with their spreadsheets.

When the wind blew from the right direction, the shape of the building sent an eerie moaning, a banshee keening, across the city. People said it was a mistake in the design of the structure. It was nothing of the sort. It was a touch Genera had insisted upon.

Finally there was silence in the room. Clara made a mental note of who had shut up immediately and who among the twelve had chattered and laughed for a time. She had to keep an eye on any sign of disrespect, any challenge. The board members were all expendable, naturally, but there was a cost and a difficulty to replacing any of them. They all had some inking of the true nature of Genera, knew some part of what was really going on, and anyone removed from the board became an immediate security risk. Sometimes a simple secret held over them bought their silence. Sometimes they had to be killed. She'd been amused to read her own file on ascending to her position. The secrets Nox had planned to blackmail her with should she ever part company with Genera. The detail, the lengths they'd gone to, were impressive. That file was now destroyed, and expunged from all back-ups and archives. No one on this world had power over her any more.

“Shall we begin?” she said. “Karla, would you kindly give us a summary of the global situation?” It was eight days since her audience with Menhroth. Eight very busy days. Plans were in motion the world over. She'd slept little, but that was what you had to do to stay ahead of the game.

Karla Simonov, Head of Global Operations, cleared her throat and instructed everyone to open the spreadsheet with its columns of figures: tonnages, extraction rates, all the key indicators of the Genera operation. She raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow and glanced around the room to make sure everyone was doing as instructed. Clara nodded at her to begin.

Half an hour later, Karla completed her talk and asked for questions. She glanced around the sullen faces in the room but mainly, Clara noticed, at her. That was good. Karla understood whose opinions really mattered. And the woman hadn't attempted to sugar-coat the effect their increased Spirit extraction rates were having on the world. There were those among the board members who opposed what Clara had ordered: one or two who, perhaps, calculated they could take over when everything went badly, when chaos and death skyrocketed. Clara understood that. Once, not so very long ago, she would have been making the same calculations. Anyone playing down the effects of Genera's actions might be hoping Clara overcompensated, upped the rates to the point where nations began to fail. Karla, it seemed, was not one of those.

“Thank you, Karla. Very illuminating. If I may summarise, our Spirit extraction rates are currently averaging 210% of where they were a week ago?”

Karla nodded. “250% in some parts of the Far East and Africa, ranging down to 190% in Northern America and Western Europe.”

“A good start. But we still have more work to do. We have to ensure rates rapidly move to 350% of the levels they were on our baseline date.” Menhroth had specified a tripling of the rate. The extra 50% was entirely her own invention. It always paid to build in a little leeway. She stared around the room, making sure she caught the gaze of everyone of them. “So, suggestions, ladies and gentlemen? Observations?”

She said the last word as if it were a mere afterthought, intending to lure any dissenters out with a pretence of valuing their views and advice. Anyone who didn't understand they were present to implement her orders clearly shouldn't be there.

Buckley, Head of Extraction Strategy, cleared his throat. “Clara, Ms. Simonov's excellent report spells out the effects of our activities in South/Central America. I think we can go a lot further there.” He was a man she had many doubts about. Fortunately he was also a man with many secrets. For a lay Minister of the church, he had a surprisingly voracious appetite for illegal substances and bought women. When it came to it, his silence could certainly be guaranteed.

“Go on,” she said. “You think we can extract more Spirit?”

Buckley glanced around as if seeking support from his fellow board members. No one, she noticed, met his gaze. He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing, before he pressed on. “I do. Extraction rates have been upped to 225%, but they were, I believe, disproportionately low in the first place. It's true there has been a wave of brutal killings in central America, as well as riots in Brazil and Venezuela, but not very much more than the region is used to.”

“Interesting,” said Clara, nodding her head as if appreciating his sage advice. “So what rate do you think we could sensibly push to in that region?” Give them enough rope, that was the way.

“I believe 400% is achievable for a short time, a month or two. Given that there are some regions we want to keep on a lower rate – those where we happen to live, of course – I believe we will have to exceed our target average in others.”

“And if we run at extraction rates that high for two months, what effects do you project?”

“Riots, civil unrest, the breakdown of order in the larger cities. Death rates will undoubtedly rise as banks fail and governments struggle to maintain order. Health care systems will be overrun and suicide rates will soar. But I believe in time, six months or so, some sort of normality will be restored, possibly with the assistance of the military.”

Clara nodded and gave him her thoughtful expression. She already had detailed projections for all regions on the planet; she'd calculated them herself, taking the greatest care on the figures. Hitting 400% in South America would tip the whole continent into meltdown. Border disputes would escalate as populations tried desperately to flee the growing panic. Food production rates would plummet. Central America and then the USA would be in the firing line, triggering a massive reduction in global extraction rates. And thus ensuring she, Clara Sweetley, would incur the wrath of their masters on the other side of the portal. Buckley's efforts were, she had to admit, nicely done. 400% was certainly high but not very much more than the maximum rate she had calculated. He was no fool. But he had badly miscalculated.

“I am only concerned that we hit our targets, of course,” said Buckley, nervous of her silence.

“Naturally,” said Clara. “Well. Can we take this offline? Talk to me after the meeting. I wanted to discuss another matter with you anyway. Certain … reports that have come my way, matters we don't need to trouble everyone with.”

Buckley looked like he'd been struck. He grasped, immediately, that he'd misjudged her, overstepped the mark. There was something of the startled rabbit about the look he gave her. Really, she almost felt sorry for him.

“Of course,” he said.

“Very good. We'll carry on upping the rates toward those you suggest. We'll get to 350% and see where we are, shall we?”

A murmur of assent rippled around the room. They all knew what had just happened. No one wanted to follow Buckley.

“Excellent,” she said. “So, turning to matters closer to home, Williams, can we have your initial report on the events at Glastonbury yesterday?”

Williams, her Chief of Security, stood hesitantly before he began to speak, like an errant schoolchild. They had failed badly at Glastonbury, and Williams clearly expected he would be held accountable. Which, in truth, was exactly what was going to happen.

Williams began, covering events at the concert at the G-Mex centre, the strange reappearance of the criminals as they stole an electric guitar from the band one of them used to play in. A turn of events Ms. Sweetly still did not understand. Why a guitar? It made no sense. It couldn't be mere sentimental attachment. The women – the witches – from this world as well as the one from Andar and this guitar player had risked their lives. They'd very nearly been caught, too. It was her very good fortune that an undain lord had apprehended them – and then been defeated. That gave her some small amount of wriggle room with the White City. If her people had been to blame it would have been the end of her. Unfortunately for him, such leeway didn't need to extend to Williams.

“So they fled to Glastonbury with this guitar, pursued by our operatives?” she said.

“Indeed. Units were scrambled across England. We elected to follow them, surround them, rather than attempting to apprehend them in the sight of so many people.” Of course he was attempting to illustrate how sound his reasoning had been. It made little difference. He'd lost the trail of the people they'd pursued, all save the one who'd died at Glastonbury. It was a failure that couldn't be tolerated.

“And what is your summary of events on top of the Tor? Of how the end of our little witch hunt unfolded?”

“It is … hard to be completely sure of the facts,” said Williams. “Certain very unusual weather conditions – a thick fog – hampered our attempts to retrieve the people we were pursuing.”

“The wrong sort of fog?” said Clara. “I believe we have technology capable of seeing through a bit of mist these days.”

Her words did nothing to make Williams look any more comfortable. He picked up his pen from the table, twisted it around in his fingers, then laid it down again. “Yes. Of course. For some reason none of them functioned. No doubt some effect of the, of the … magical power our quarry was able to bring to bear.”

“No doubt.”

“Our … colleagues from beyond the Portal were present as well, of course. They, too, were hampered by the fog. It appeared to have a certain, well, solidity to it, as if it was a physical wall.” Williams, too, was attempting to pass the blame onto the undain. Exactly as she knew he would.

“I believe there was a fifth individual as well?” she said. “The driver of the car?”

“Yes.”

“An individual we have monitored previously, someone the criminals were known to have contacted upon their arrival in Manchester?”

Williams looked for a way out but couldn't find one. “Yes. He worked at an Indian restaurant. That was where they went to see him.”

“Do we know what was said?”

“No.”

“A shame. I believe there are indications, also, that our communications have been compromised? That these ridiculous witches from a place where they don't even have electricity were somehow able to direct a highly sophisticated cyber attack on our systems?”

She thought he was going to turn and run there and then. Instead he said, in a small voice, “That is correct.”

She held his gaze for a moment, watching him squirm. She would speak to him afterward, too. His period of usefulness had come to an end. Unfortunately, he appeared to have led a blameless life, a devoted husband and father, no habits beyond a passion for one of the Manchester football teams. For him, alas, the only way to ensure his silence would be to explain to him the extent of the danger his beautiful young children would be in should he prove untrustworthy. Either that or arrange his suicide. She hadn't decided which yet.

“So,” she said, “you believe those we pursued escaped into the other world?”

“Yes, that's our working hypothesis. When the mists finally cleared, there was only the dead woman, Fiona Weerd. The others were gone.”

“And you obviously scoured the area for signs of them?”

“We did.”

She nodded. Although, in truth, she had her doubts. The people they sought were resourceful, powerful. She'd make sure Genera carried on looking, just in case Williams had missed something.

“And there was no sign of the book either?” She spoke more quietly, almost gently. No one else in the room made a sound. Not all of them knew why they were pursuing the women, but everyone had heard something about the book. Rumours. Gossip. The Witch King coveted it. Nox had lost it and been replaced. Now she had lost it, too. She caught the briefest flicker of pleasure on Buckley's face. She added it to one of her mental lists.

“No sign,” said Williams. “The book and the criminals were gone. We recovered the car, of course, but that's all.”

She nodded. They weren't to know that the other witch, the girl Cait, was in Angere, in the land of the undain. She hadn't yet been apprehended, but the word from the White City was that it would only be a matter of time. And Clara had made it clear to her masters that, to the best of her knowledge, Cait and Nox had the book with them, that there was certainly no sign of it in this world. Whether that was true or not she didn't know, but it was enough to keep her safe. For a time.

“I see,” she said. “Then I think we're done. Buckley, Williams, if you could come and see me in my office for a little chat please? The rest of you, same time tomorrow, yes? Let's make sure we hit our targets.”

The smiles of relief on the faces of all but Buckley and Williams were a delight to see.

Fifteen minutes later, Buckley stood with his head bowed in front of her. He would be allowed to stay on in Genera, carry out some meaningless role that would pay him enough for him to survive without having any power. She had shown him all the evidence they had against him. His shock and horror were enough to convince her they could rely on him to remain quiet. Nevertheless, they would keep an eye on him. Just in case.

When he was gone, gaze still cast down to the expensive carpet, Williams took his place.

“I'm afraid there is a price for failure,” she said to him, watching him from across her desk.

Unexpectedly, a spark of anger flared in his eyes. It was more than she would have given him credit for. He shook as he spoke. “And what of your failures, Ms. Sweetley? What of the mistakes you made when that schoolgirl escaped the refinery? Or were they even mistakes? Is it possible you let her go to inconvenience Mr. Nox? Those security systems looked like they'd been deliberately deactivated to me.”

He'd been saving these accusations to hurl at her. He'd made a mistake to speak them now. As it happened he was absolutely correct, and that was a fact no one could ever find out.

She smiled at him. “Serious allegations. We must report them immediately to our undain masters.”

He looked surprised at her words. “We must?”

“Oh yes.”

She pressed a button to summon the creature from Angere. Such a shame about those beautiful young children, but there it was. The board room was no place for the weak and foolish.

When the door opened, a look of triumph flashed across William's features. It turned to alarm when he saw the ravening, snarling creature that strutted into the room, teeth bared.

Williams took a step backward. “No! I promise I won't…”

After that there was nothing intelligible from him, only wordless cries and screams. After a few moments they died out, too.

When it was done, Ms. Sweetley pressed another button. “Cleaning Services? Could you send a special team to my office please? There are some stains that need removing.”

Fer, Catherine and the wise man known as the Lizard King walked in a line through dense woods, weaving their way among the boughs. The ground was soft beneath their feet, springy with a carpet of pine needles, and the only sounds were the chatterings of birds. No one had spoken for an hour or more. They were all exhausted, numb from events on the Tor.

Fer wasn't entirely clear what had happened on that strange, conical hilltop. Fiona had worked strong magic, it was clear, protecting Johnny while he tried to play his way back into Andar. She and Catherine had offered what help they could. Then the undain had broken through and everything had become confused. Her memories were mainly of snarling teeth, flashing claws and screams. Then some sort of explosion had picked them up, tossing them around, scattering them. Either she'd knocked her head in the chaos, or else she'd fallen into some sort of fugue as a result of the magic she'd worked, but in any case she'd lost her senses.

When she came round, she thought for a moment she'd been carried back to Andar, some effect of Johnny opening the portal with his guitar playing. It soon became clear that wasn't right. The Lizard King showed them the signal on his phone. They were still in England, yet somehow they'd been transported a distance from the Tor. A mile away, the Lizard King said, studying his screen.

“Fiona's doing,” said Catherine. The shock at the loss of her daughter filled her mind, painful to see. Fer tried to think of something to say to help, but there was nothing.

“We'd better keep moving,” said the Lizard King. They spoke in the language of Andar so Fer could understand. The wise man had learned the tongue from his years of eavesdropping, and Catherine had been taught it by Jaiin in the library. “If Fiona did hurl us away as far as she could, she did it to protect us, give us a chance. We can't throw that away.”

He was right, of course. Catherine nodded and they hiked away, nursing their aching, cramping limbs, following pathways through the trees that would take them far from Glastonbury.

Now, as they trudged along, Fer tried to think about what they should do. Of the five who had set out from Andar, only she and the archaeon remained. Seleena had died in the Tanglewood. Ran had fallen into Angere with Cait. Johnny had – seemingly – made it back to Andar with the book. She was alone in this strange, confusing world save for Cait's grandmother, the Lizard King and the bookwyrm. Catherine was kind, resourceful, but not particularly powerful. The loss of her daughter and worry about Cait flooded her mind. Fer knew very little about the wise man. He'd come to their rescue, but his magical abilities were limited. He could occasionally glimpse events through the eyes of others but could do little to intervene. Still, at least he and Catherine knew how this world worked. That would be some help, perhaps. The bookwyrm, too, if the creature could be persuaded to assist. She wasn't completely alone, but with the forces of Genera and Angere ranged against them, it seemed pretty hopeless.

“What are we going to do?” said Fer when they stopped to rest. They walked among oaks now, the trees' leaves beginning to turn to yellows and oranges. Clouds had slid over the sky, and a light drizzle pattered down onto the treetops.

“We may still be needed,” said Catherine, all colour gone from her voice. “We should go back to Manchester in case Cait needs us somehow.”

“How far is it?”

“Two hundred miles or so.”

Fer considered, worrying mainly about Catherine. She didn't see what they could do for Cait. “I think we need to rest. We're in no state to go back. I think we should hide for a time until we're ready for the journey. Perhaps we'll hear something across the aether about what we need to do.”

“Hide where?” said Catherine. “We're in the middle of nowhere.”

“I think I might know a place,” said the Lizard King, frowning as if recalling faint memories. “Maybe twenty miles from here. Used to be a witch lived there, kept herself to herself. She died five years ago but I might be able to find it.”

“Who lives in her house now?”

“Possibly no one. I stopped seeing when she went, of course. But even in her day it was a ruin. Four stone walls and only half a roof to keep the rain off. There was a tree, I remember, growing in the middle of one of the rooms, right through a hole in the ceiling. She used to tie decorations around its trunk and burn little candles in its hollows.”

“And perhaps it's been bought and converted into a luxury home since then,” said Catherine.

“Perhaps. But it was remote, half-way up a hillside. A barn or a cattle shelter or something. It's all I can think of. If we get that far, and if it's not safe, then I guess we can just carry on north.”

Catherine nodded her assent. She clearly had no strength for an argument. “Shame we can't drive. We could be back home in a few hours.”

“Too dangerous,” said the Lizard King. “We dare not hitchhike or take a train or anything. They may believe we ended up in Andar, but we can't be sure. We have to assume they're still looking for us.”

“Can you see anything through the eyes of others that might help?” asked Fer.

“I will keep trying. The visions ebb and flow. I have very little control over them.”

“What about your phone? The bookwyrm?”

“I'm almost out of power. Unless you can work some magic to recharge it?”

“I have no idea how to do that,” said Fer.

“We'll try this ruin,” said Catherine. “Twenty miles is a long, weary walk, but maybe we can make it before nightfall.”

None of them speaking further, Fer, Catherine and the Lizard King threaded through the trees, Fer looking constantly around in fear of pursuit.

3. A Single Word Different

Andar

They met on the green grass of the orchard of witches: Cait and Danny, Ran and Nox, Johnny, Ashen and Hellen. In the middle of the circle were two identical books: the same red leather cover, the same etched diagrams of skeletons and skulls, even the same old stains. It was weird to see them side-by-side. The left and right hand halves of Ilminion's Grimoire, one brought from Cait's world by Johnny, the other stolen from the Witch King by Cait. Both of them originally stolen from the enemy by Nox.

They'd made landfall in Andar early the previous day. Hyrn had rowed through the night, never speaking, never pausing despite his age and seeming exhaustion. When they'd stepped out of his little boat he'd simply rowed off, back into the mists. Apparently he wasn't a man but some sort of woodland god. He looked pretty wrecked for a god. He reminded Cait of someone she'd met or glimpsed in a dream. She couldn't recall the details. She was just glad to be in Andar. Not safe ground, exactly, but safer. For now.

Johnny had been waiting for them on the banks, his dazzling, brightly-painted boat moored nearby. Smoke on the Water. That, in turn, had brought them down the An to the mouth of a river called the Gleaming which in turn led to Silverwater Lake and the island of the witches that she'd heard so much about.

It was good to see Johnny again. He'd explained everything that had happened back home as they floated along. Everything Cait's mum and gran and Fer had said and done. How they'd recovered his guitar and been hunted by the forces of Genera. And then how Cait's mother had died at Glastonbury Tor to give him a chance of returning to Andar. He hadn't known she was dead until Hellen, hearing word across the aether, broke the news to him.

“She gave me a message for Hellen,” he said. “Told her to save you, use the book or whatever was needed. But just to save you. That was all she cared about.”

Cait thought about that for a time, staring over the quiet waters of the An. Losing her mother so abruptly was still impossible to understand. It was like a coldness inside her. Now she'd lost both parents. How did you come to terms with something like that? So many things had been left unsaid. “But my gran and Fer survived?”

“So Hellen says, although communication with our world is patchy. They'll obviously still be in a ton of danger, but it looks like your mother managed to magic them away from Glastonbury before … the end.”

Cait nodded, not trusting her voice to work in reply.

At the island they'd been met by Ashen. He was tall and wiry, apparently taking after his dead father, the wyrm lord Borrn, but she could see something of Hellen in his face. A lot going on behind those eyes, Cait thought. She liked him immediately.

“I've heard a lot about you, Cait,” he said as they walked up from the jetty. “What you did was wonderful. Incredible.”

“Couldn't have done it without you. Your mother explained how you sent the message about the bridgehead to Phoenix.”

“Yes. With help.”

“We'd have been lost without that.”

“It was a small thing. The least I could do.”

“You did what was needed,” said Cait, thinking that she suddenly sounded like her gran. “That's all that matters.”

Now, they sat in the silence of the orchard. A sharp chill hung in the air. Grey clouds billowed toward them from the north, following the line of the An, bringing the threat of rain. There was a heavy, orange tint to some of them, as if they bore a weight of snow. Cait hadn't understood why they couldn't sit in the round, echoing space of the Wycka. It was open to the elements at the top but would at least have been warmer. But apparently the spirits of the dead witches lingered here, taking up residence in the trees. Spirits that liked to contribute to discussions. The crooked old boughs surrounded them, like the skeletons of proper trees, all twigs and knots.

Fer had described a gathering like this to her when they'd first discussed what was to be done about the book. Now it was her turn. Her and Danny's. He, alone, didn't speak the language of this world, so she would have to translate for him. The gift Phoenix had given her, the gift of voices, meant she could follow everyone's words with ease.

She huddled closer to Danny for warmth. Fortunately someone had lit a crackling fire of fallen branches. Not for visions from the stones that Ran wore around his neck, but simply to keep the chill off. Sweet-smelling wood smoke filled the air.

“So,” said Hellen. “Here we are. Now we must decide what is to be done about the book. And everything else, come to that.”

“Is there any way we can fight the undain without using the death magic?” asked Cait.

“How big was the army you saw?”

“I don't know. Huge. There were thousands of them.”

“Hundreds of thousands,” said Nox.

Hellen cast a glance at Ran. “And there are only a thousand or so wyrm lords.”

“But there must be other armies in Andar,” said Danny. “Other defenders?”

“Not really,” said Ashen. “There are a few watchmen in Guilden and the other cities. Then there are the wyrm lords and the witches. That's about it. We've grown complacent. There's never been war in Andar. The events of five hundred years ago are distant, an old story. Or maybe that's what people like to think. But we won't be enough, not nearly enough. I was at Howl Hill at the equinox, I saw what the coming winter will be like. For all we know, the invasion may have started already, up there in the high north.”

“So then we have to use the book?” said Cait. “Turn their own magic against them?”

“You don't like the idea?” said Hellen.

“It feels wrong. I don't know, bad.”

The air buzzed with a murmur of half-heard words. The voices of the dead witches in the aether.

“There are many here who would agree with you,” said Hellen. “But is it so different from what you did at the White City? That was magic many on the Witches' Isle would have shunned. Sometimes, I think, we have to get our hands dirty.”

“Still,” said Cait. “I don't like it.”

“We have to use all the weapons at our disposal,” said Nox.

“We may not have to work the magic Ilminion did,” said Ashen. “Perhaps, if we understand the rites, see why Menhroth wants the Grimoire so much, we'll find a weakness we can use without having to work any death magic ourselves.”

“Is that likely?” asked Cait.

“Perhaps,” said Hellen. She pulled another book from the folds of her skirt, this one smaller and black, its cover plain. “This is Akbar's journal, brought to Andar with your ancestor, Cait, and held at Caer D'nar ever since.”

“It says something?”

“No one has been able to make sense of it these five hundred years. Fortunately, we now have someone who can.”

“The bookwyrm?” said Danny. “I thought the creature was all over the internet in our world.”

“Yeah,” said Johnny. “It is. But I brought a copy of it in my phone when I came here.” He waved his mobile around as if to prove the point. “Before the battery died we managed to transfer the wyrm into the journal. Back from pixels to ink and paint.”

“And it can read Akbar's words?” asked Cait.

Hellen smiled. “You know what the creature is like. It tells me that the handwriting is extremely difficult and the language all-but forgotten, but that it is, thankfully, wise enough to interpret it.”

“And what has it found?”

“It's still working its way through Akbar's writing,” said Ashen. “But one passage has emerged that is of interest. Before he split the Grimoire in two, in what little time he had, Akbar studied it. He noted that there were two different versions of the Ritual used by Ilminion to resurrect the King.”

“Two different versions?” said Cait. “How do we know which one was used?”

“We don't. But it is interesting Ilminion set down a second.”

“So he made a mistake with the first version,” said Cait. “That's not so strange. You should see my schoolwork.”

“It might have simply been a mistake,” said Hellen. “Or, then again, it might not.”

“Can we even tell how the two differ?” asked Danny.

Ashen threw another branch onto the fire, flaring it briefly into life. “Akbar said they are almost identical. Only a single word different.”

“I don't see how a single word can make much difference,” said Cait.

“Perhaps,” said Hellen. She looked thoughtful as she spoke. “Or perhaps it makes all the difference in the world. Depends on the word. If we can recreate the Grimoire then maybe we'll be able to make some sense of it ourselves.”

“Are we able to do that?” asked Nox.

“Not yet,” said Ashen. “But once the archaeon has finished translating Akbar's words we might be able to get somewhere.”

“Only a mancer could unwork Akbar's magic,” said Hellen. “Fortunately we have Ashen here to attempt it.” The pride on her face as she spoke was clear.

“The book may not be a weapon,” said Cait. “There may be nothing there we can use.”

“True enough,” said Hellen. “In that case it makes little difference. All we can do is fight and hope that somehow, by some miracle, we prevail.”

“OK, so,” said Danny, “while Ashen gets on with that, what about the rest of us?”

“I've been thinking about it,” said Hellen. “I have an idea or two.”

Cait caught Danny's eye and had to look away for fear of bursting into laughter. They'd privately agreed that Hellen would say almost exactly that. Nox frowned at them.

“Go on,” said Johnny, covering for them.

“Five hundred years ago,” said Hellen, “the witches of Islagray Wycka marched north to the ice, to bring the An into flood and so sweep the great bridge away. Witches and mancers on both sides worked together to seal off Andar. Now I think it is time to repeat that march. The snow and ice will be creeping south. I think we have to move north to meet it, everyone save a few to continue singing the Song. Wherever the undain choose to attack, they need the frozen river to do it. We should go and try and stop them. At the very least warn people of what is coming.”

“What chance will we have?” said Cait.

“Very little,” said Hellen. “At best I think we can try and delay them, give Ashen and the witches who remain here at the Wycka more time. The dragonriders will defend Caer L'dun, and they, too, may hold out for a while. We have to hope Menhroth takes each city and town as he moves south rather than racing directly here.”

“You said the witches melted the ice in the old days,” said Danny, Cait still translating for him. “That they flooded the An. Can't you do something similar again? Melt the ice under the feet of the undain?”

Hellen shook her head. “It is beyond us. There are so few of us, and what was done five hundred years ago, great as it was, was simply to hurry along the thaw that was going to happen anyway. Mountainsides of ice and snow slide into the An every spring, thankfully not all at the same time. Even the witches of old couldn't have melted ice up the length of the river.”

“OK, so,” said Danny, who'd clearly been thinking about this, “What about the serpents? You said they smash up any ship that attempts the crossing. Why can't they break through the ice and drown the army?”

“There is something in that. But the serpents are Hyrn's, as I think you know, and he is far gone, weakened by everything that has happened. The effort of rowing us back to Andar may have finished him off. And even the serpents may struggle to break through the ice when it is ten feet thick. But … perhaps they can be persuaded to play their part.”

“We have to at least warn Guilden,” said Ashen. “No one there has a clue. The city will be thronged with revellers for Midwinter. I tried to tell them but they wouldn't listen.”

“They might listen to me,” said Hellen. “So I will go north, along with most of the witches and wise men of Islagray. We may not be able to do much but we will do what we can. The rest of you should stay here. Cait especially.”

“Why?” demanded Cait.

“Because it is safer. Because I was given a solemn duty to look after you, and I'll carry that duty out as best I can.”

Not so very long ago, Cait might have crumbled and gone along with Hellen's wishes. Not any more. Not after everything that had happened. “No. It's no safer here, not really. I'm coming with you. Perhaps I can help slow them down. I've fought them before, remember. The only witch here who has.”

Hellen studied her for a moment before replying. “And what would your mother say to such a suggestion?”

“She'd sigh and complain about headstrong Weerds and then let me go.”

With clear reluctance, Hellen came to a decision. “Very well. Come if you must. At least I can keep an eye on you.”

Hellen peered around the circle to the others. “And what will you all do? Ran, I think you, at least, should be spared this journey. You have suffered much, by fire and sword. You have watched over Fer and then Cait, done far more than I could ever have asked. We could leave you at Caer D'nar as we head north.”

Ran shook his head. “No. I will go with Cait.”

Hellen frowned but appeared to be aware it was pointless trying to argue. “And you others? Johnny? Nox? Danny, it seems, can hardly be separated from Cait.”

All three indicated they wished to travel north, although Johnny looked distinctly alarmed by the prospect as he nodded his head.

“Good,” said Hellen. “I think we can allow ourselves a few days rest. We've all been through a lot. But winter is drawing on, and we must reach Guilden soon. Find warm clothes and good boots for the journey. We'll need them.”

“One other thing,” said Cait. “It just occurred to me. When we were in the White City we saw cartloads of Spirit being wheeled along after the army. Vast amounts. They must need a constant supply of it for the invasion.”

“A lot of it will be coming through the pipe from the refinery, no doubt,” said Danny. “Bled from the people of our world. Perhaps we should try and disrupt the flow, do something to the pipeline. We talked about trying it before, when we were back home. It'll be dangerous, obviously.”

Hellen considered, the dead witches of Islagray Wycka joining in with the conversation. After long moments Hellen replied. “Perhaps it is for the best. We have the book now, so even if Fer or Cait's grandmother are captured Menhroth won't be able to complete the rites. It is a hard thing to say, but perhaps now the risk is worth taking.”

“How do we get the message through to them?” asked Cait.