The Caller (48 page)

Rohan Death-Blade moved as quick as an eel. Now his knife was at the king’s throat. ‘Call off your forces, Keldec,’ he said. ‘Or you die now. Do not doubt me.’

‘Esten,’ screamed the queen, ‘do something!’

I saw him stretch out his arms, heard him draw a gasping breath, sensed him preparing himself for the call of his life, the call that would restore him to the king’s favour and bring him the recognition he so desperately craved. And I knew he was no longer a threat. I felt the utter certainty that my call could prevail; that the ancient magic of Alban was the strongest weapon of all.

Earth, Air, Fire, Water. Endurance, vision, purpose, courage. This time my call had no words, except perhaps
Help
or
It is time
. People told me later they saw a white light, or felt a tingling in the air, or heard a sound like a thunderclap. I know that suddenly, from a clear sky, rain began to fall. But after I felt those first drops I fainted, to come to myself with Gormal’s guards bending over me and my head, much to my shock, pillowed on the Master’s bony knee. Now he was not the splendid lord I had seen before, but the frail old man of our first meeting.

‘All right, Ellida?’ one of the guards said.

‘I will be.’

‘Fellow says he’s your grandfather. Came from nowhere.’

‘Oh. Yes, that’s right.’ I looked up at the Master of Shadows; he was grinning.

‘Sit up, then,’ he said. ‘Slowly does it. You took a risk with that call. Seems it may have paid off.’

I had always thought that for a Caller to summon a Guardian was wrong, that they were too ancient and powerful to be brought forth in such a way. That such a call should be used only in the last extreme. I had not argued the case with myself today; I had simply done it. And there they were: the Master of Shadows here with me, come of his own accord, and not far away the Lord of the North in his white fur cloak, his noble features sombre as he gazed out over a field now littered with the terrible aftermath of the battle. Beside him stood a strange creature, in shape a lovely woman in a flowing gown, but not of solid flesh, for she was made up of many tiny beings, shifting and glimmering, their small bodies somehow joining together to create her form. The White Lady, made whole again. Close by stood the Hag of the Isles, tall and strong in her cloak of fronded weed, with her hair spilling moon-silver over her shoulders. As I sat up, then stood, leaning on the Master’s arm, she made a pass through the air before her, and the sprinkling of rain became a torrential downpour – not over those of us in this raised area, but precisely on the combatants still hacking and slicing and killing out there on the open ground. So heavy was the fall that it became impossible for them to go on fighting. The ground turned to a quagmire; folk struggled to hold on to their weapons; quite plainly, foe could not see foe through the sheets of rain. The sound drowned out even the cries of the dying.

As abruptly as it had begun, the rain ceased. A voice rang out: that of the Lord of the North, who stood by the Hag. ‘Let no more blood be shed here!’ he called. ‘Let the killing cease. Lay down your weapons, humankind and Good Folk alike, and let the work of mending begin.’

‘May light conquer dark,’ came the voice of the White Lady. ‘May kindness take the place o’ cruelty. May wisdom banish ignorance and fear.’ Many eyes were on her now. Perhaps, in the heat of the battle, folk had not realised the wondrous thing that had taken place here; had not recognised the powerful magic that now enveloped them. But they were starting to see, and now, one after another, folk dropped their swords, their knives, their spears and clubs to the sodden ground. Rebels; Good Folk; Enforcers.

The battle was not quite won; the losses were not quite at an end. In a spot near the outer gates, a band of king’s men still held out despite the losses, despite the presence of the Guardians, despite everything.

‘Men of Hound troop, stand fast!’ Brydian’s shout was hoarse and ragged, a last burst of hopeless defiance. ‘Defend your king! Down with these traitors!’ As for the king himself, Rohan Death-Blade still held him with a knife at the throat, and he could not say a word.

‘If you heed that advice you’re nothing but fools, and you deserve the rule of a tyrant!’ roared out the Master of Shadows, startling me so much I nearly fell. ‘Would you fight until every last one of you lies dead on the field? If any chieftain here is still loyal to the king, let him declare his surrender now! See to your fallen! Save your loyalty and your sacrifice for a leader who merits it.’ He reached a fist above his head, then opened it. A towering jet of flame shot out, casting a red-gold glow over the sodden ground, the weary fighters, the shocked onlookers.

‘How dare you challenge the king –’ began the queen, then fell silent. The Lord of the North had motioned toward his people, and the giant guards Constant and Trusty marched up the steps to relieve Rohan of his charge. Scar apprehended a spluttering Brydian, and the warrior named Fleabane had the other counsellor, Gethan, in his grip. And here was Sage, apparently quite unharmed, come from nowhere to stand with staff in hand beside Esten, who was slumped motionless in his seat, eyes closed.

Erevan of Scourie, who had been seated near Keldec, rose to his feet. ‘Scourie surrenders!’ he called to his men on the field. ‘The king no longer has our allegiance. Men, lay down your weapons!’

A warrior stepped out from the throng down there, his tunic barely recognisable as green under the crimson stains. He faced the Guardians and bowed his head. ‘Wedderburn surrenders,’ he said, his exhaustion plain in his voice. ‘Our chieftain, Keenan, fell in this battle. We go forward under the thistle.’

The fey combatants had backed off as soon as the Hag spoke; a few of them were helping the wounded, but most had gathered in groups, Northies, Southies, Westies, their eyes fixed in wonder on the Guardians. Over by the outer gates, Lannan Long-Arm was rapping out orders, and there was Abhan of Horse Troop beside him, and to my immense relief the last group of Enforcers laid aside their arms. Some of the Shadowfell rebels were shepherding ordinary folk out through the gates; men and women carried children across ground stained red, shielding the little ones’ eyes as they passed. Over by the barrier, Tali had risen to her feet; Hollow cleared a way so she could walk forward. As she passed, a sombre figure in her stained clothing, the whole place fell quiet.

‘Come,’ said my self-styled grandfather. He led me down the steps, and along to a spot between the White Lady and the Hag. By the time we reached them, the Master had changed again, and was in his lordly form.

I searched the mass of people on the field for Flint. Where was he? Somewhere out there lying under a heap of bodies? In a corner, in the shadows, kicked aside because he was in the way?

Tali had come to the front of the crowd, alongside the loyal chieftains, and there was Fingal, supporting a wounded Brasal, and there was no missing the imposing form of Hollow, but I could not see my man anywhere. Perhaps he had fallen at the first charge, trampled underfoot. He’d had no weapons. He had never intended to fight. Most likely he had thought he deserved to die.

All over the field now, comrade stooped to tend to wounded comrade, friend closed the staring eyes of fallen friend. But most of the fighters simply stood in place, shocked into silence by the immensity of what had happened: the rebellion, the battle, the losses, the Good Folk, the sudden overwhelming appearance of the Guardians. Many people here would never have seen one of the Good Folk before; many might have hardly believed they existed outside the old tales. And now the king was overthrown, and everything was turned upside down. The yard of Summerfort was littered with the dead and dying. And magic was everywhere.

The Lord of the North stood tall and solemn, gazing over the scene of carnage. ‘Remember this day, people of Alban,’ he said. ‘Let the wisdom of the old ways never again be forgotten. Let the power of ancient peoples never again be dismissed. There have been many losses; many sorrows. May this be a day of healing for humankind and Good Folk alike. May we work to mend this broken realm.’

‘The light shine upon ye all, and bring ye tae paths o’ truth.’ The White Lady’s form might be that of a beauteous goddess, but her voice was exactly as it had been before. ‘This realm o’ oors, ’tis full o’ the strange and wondrous, ye ken? Full o’ mystery and power. Heed what the Lord here tellit ye. Dinna forget the auld banes o’ Alban, the tales and songs, the rites and the prayers. Those things, they hold a body up when times are hard. They gie a body strength when sorrow comes. They lift a body oot o’ the mire o’ despond. Lose them, and ye rip oot Alban’s very hairt. Heed them, and Alban’s hairt beats inside ye, keepin’ ye strong and true.’ She turned toward me, and her movement was a shimmer, a dance, a celebration. As she spoke, one tiny form detached itself from her and flew around my head in exuberant loops before returning to its place. Piper, without a doubt. I found myself smiling through tears. ‘This lassie, Neryn, she’s done a grand job today, though some o’ ye may no’ ken that,’ the Lady went on. ‘Wi’oot her, there could be nae workin’ together, nae cooperation between humankind and Good Folk. There’s some will reach oot the hand o’ friendship wi’oot the need for a Caller, aye.’ She looked at Sage; at Hollow. ‘There’s some hae an understandin’ o’ this, deep doon. But make nae mistake. This battle’s been won by the work o’ this lassie, and by brave folk that werena prepared tae lie doon and let this fellow here,’ – she cast a glance Keldec’s way – ‘ruin and spoil the land o’ Alban.’

‘Who are you?’ spluttered the king. ‘What are you, that you assume so much? I am the rightful ruler of Alban! I have done only what was necessary to keep my kingdom safe! How dare –’ He fell silent as Constant’s large hand came casually around his neck.

‘If ye dinna ken wha we are,’ said the Hag, ‘ye dinna deserve tae be king, that’s the truth.’ She turned to me. ‘Would ye speak tae these folk, Neryn?’

I was so tired. All I wanted to do was lie down somewhere quiet, shed my tears, then sleep. But I had to do this.

‘Come, lassie,’ said the White Lady. ‘Ye can dae it. I’m thinkin’ ye can dae anythin’ ye put your mind tae.’

I straightened my back; lifted my chin. Breathed as I had been taught, slow and steady. ‘My name is Neryn.’ I did not use the ringing, powerful voice of the call, but spoke as I might to trusted friends. ‘I come from a village called Corbie’s Wood that was sacked and burned during the Cull four years ago. And I am a Caller. My canny gift allows me to bring humankind and Good Folk together to work for a common cause. My family died under Keldec’s rule. I have lost many friends along the way. But I have also found new friends, among the Good Folk and among the wonderful people of Shadowfell, so staunch and true, so steadfast in the cause of freedom.’ I looked down at Tali, and she looked back at me, her face blazing with pride. ‘Regan, who formed the rebel movement and who died in its service. Tali, who led the uprising today and who has given so much of herself to ensuring this day came. The man most of you know as Owen Swift-Sword, who gave himself to the rebellion mind, body and spirit; who trod a difficult path during his long years as Shadowfell’s spy at court.’

‘I knew it!’ cried Queen Varda. ‘I told you! I told you that man was rotten to the core, a traitor from the moment he came here! If you’d taken heed, if you hadn’t been so –’

The crowd shouted her down, but she turned on me a look of fury so venomous that it was like a blow. Keldec, too, was gazing at me. His look was quite different. His earlier anger was gone; in Constant’s grip, he looked, quite simply, bereft. He had understood, more quickly than his wife had, that all they had built was gone; that their world, too, would never be the same.

‘The rebels welcomed me despite their reservations,’ I went on, struggling to keep my voice steady, ‘and made me one of them. These wise presences, the Guardians of ancient lore, watchers over our fair land, shared their wisdom with me and taught me to use my gift well. Good Folk great and small offered me their trust, their friendship, their guidance and protection, and many died for their commitment to our cause.

‘I am not the only one who has suffered losses. All of us grieve for family, friends, comrades fallen on the long path to freedom. Some of you may struggle to accept the change that has come about today. Remember that we are all brothers and sisters under Alban’s wide sky. The fire of Alban’s truth burns in our hearts. The light of Alban’s courage shines in our spirits. Each day we breathe the clear air of Alban’s hope. And the river of Alban’s story, flowing from time before time, brings a wisdom we must never again set aside. Remember this day. Tell the tale to your children and your grandchildren. Let those we have lost on this field of battle, and all those fallen over the years of Keldec’s reign, never be forgotten.’ My knees felt suddenly weak; I sat down. The crowd was roaring approval.

‘People of Alban,’ said the Master of Shadows, drawing himself up to his full, more-than-human height. ‘You’ve a lot of mending to do. Make sure you do it well. This was a wrong brought about by humankind, and it’s for humankind to set it to rights. You have good leaders; let them guide you forward. We will depart, taking our own folk with us, and leave you to begin the long work that lies ahead. But there’s a question to be answered first: what’s to become of this so-called king of yours?’

Shouts from the crowd, then: ‘Death!’ ‘String him up!’ ‘Kill the tyrant!’

The strong voice of Lannan Long-Arm came over the baying for blood. ‘Even for the most base of tyrants, there should be due process.’

The shouting grew louder, an insistent chorus. ‘Death to the tyrant! Death to Keldec!’ I saw indecision on Tali’s face, and on those of several chieftains. The king was silent. ‘Death! Death! Death!’ I remembered my brother breathing his last at fourteen years of age, with an Enforcer’s spear through his chest. I remembered the flaming boat in which my father had died, and Sorrel screaming with an iron chain wrapped around him, and my grandmother after the enthralment, a pathetic shell of her old self. Regan’s head strung up on the walls of Wedderburn fortress. Garven crushed and broken. Little Don, Ban, Killen, all slain for the cause. Every village sacked during the Cull, every life lost, every family destroyed. All those who lay now on this field in their blood. Did the man who had done all that deserve mercy?