Winter Wood (44 page)

Midge thought about it for a moment. Pegs had warned her not to enter here again, but did she really want to trail all the way home and then have to come back again later? No. She had brought them the Orbis, and she was going to hand it over now. Tadgemole or Maglin would be in there somewhere, and either one of them ought to be very glad to see her. And she had to know whether Pegs was all right.

She shuffled further forward, disentangling herself from the briars that snagged at her clothing before properly beginning to make her way along the tunnel stream. It was horrible in here, even more cramped than she had remembered, and her feet were freezing inside her rubber boots. She had to keep putting her free hand out to steady herself, and the wicker walls were slithery wet, icy drips running down her wrist and into the sleeve of her fleece.

Splash, splash, splash.
It was agony trying to walk in such an impossibly a low crouch, and Midge had to stop about two thirds of the way along the tunnel for a breather. She didn't recall it being quite this difficult
to get through before. Maybe she'd grown since last summer. Come on, then. Keep going.
Splash, splash, splash . . .

Ohhhh . . . the relief of being able to straighten up. Midge emerged into the daylight, took a few steps more, and stood on the large flat rock that lay in the middle of the stream. She put her hands on her hips as she stretched her back and shoulder muscles.

The cold woods looked even more tangled and gnarled than they had in the summer, with little foliage to soften the stark shapes of the twisted trees. But there was the same damp and earthy smell to the place that she remembered from before, like that of old compost – centuries of rotted-down vegetation and leaf mould. Midge gazed upwards, her eyes searching the forested hillside, the bushes and the rocky crags, and finally the higher belt of sycamores and cedars that marked the boundaries of the clearings. It all seemed very quiet. No signs of life that she could see . . .

‘Where be t'other 'un, then?'

Midge nearly stumbled from her perch at the sudden sound. The carrier bag swung wildly as she spun round, her arms flailing in an attempt to keep her balance.

‘What?'

A figure was standing near the mouth of the tunnel. A bearded Ickri, armed with a bow and arrow. Midge put her hand up to her chest as she tried to catch her breath. Who was he – a guard?

‘Open thee ears, Gorji. I said where be t'other 'un?'
The archer raised the tip of the arrow, not pointing it directly at her, but the threat was there, nevertheless.

‘What other . . . who?' Midge was confused – and beginning to feel a sense of danger on top of her initial shock. She didn't much like the look of this one, with his chilly gaze and his sneering voice.

‘I were told there was to be two of 'ee. You be one. Now where be t'other?'

What was he talking about? Midge couldn't understand him. But there was something very scary in his manner – something familiar. And there was something going on here that didn't feel right. The archer looked away from her for a moment, leaned sideways to quickly glance into the mouth of the tunnel, then turned back towards her. He was obviously expecting someone else.

‘Have 'ee no tongue?'

‘Huh? Oh . . .' Midge found herself speaking without thinking, some instinct telling her to just play along with this. ‘Oh . . . you mean
him
. Yes. He'll be here soon.' What was she getting herself into? The thought of George came into her head. That had been the original plan – that George would be coming here too. Maybe Little-Marten and Henty had arrived here after all, and had said as much.

‘Yes,' she said again. ‘He shouldn't be long now. What is it . . . what do you want? I'm supposed to be meeting Maglin. Or Tadgemole. Have you seen them?'

The archer looked at her only briefly. His eyes were cold, like those of a jackdaw, a pale grey ring
surrounding the dark pupils. And those eyes were everywhere, constantly watchful – not just of her but of everything around. As though he was nervous.

‘Which one of 'ee carries the Orbis?'

‘What? Oh, the Orbis. My cous— my friend. The other one. He'll be bringing it.'

‘Do 'ee say so? Then what have 'ee got there?' The archer moved away from the tunnel mouth, and took a few paces along the bank of the stream, so that he was directly opposite Midge. ‘See . . . I ain't so sure that there be anyone else to come, arter all. No, I reckon thee be all alone, maidy.' He waved the arrow point at the carrier bag.

‘Show me.'

‘It's nothing.' Midge was seriously worried now, and already looking for a way out of this. ‘It's just some food, that's all. An apple.' The tunnel mouth was unguarded, but she knew that she couldn't hope to escape that way. Too slow. There were bramble bushes lining the bank where the archer stood, and maybe she could have dodged amongst them if she'd been on that side of the stream. But she wasn't.

‘Show me!' The archer raised his bow and Midge automatically stepped backwards, one foot slipping from the rock and into the stony shallows. There was nowhere for her to go. Nowhere at all. She put her hand into the bag, still trying to gain some time.

‘See . . .' She took another stumbling pace backwards, and another. ‘It's just that I'm not supposed to . . .' Her left foot was on more or less dry land. ‘I'm not supposed to let anyone else . . .'

Her only idea was to take the Orbis from the bag and throw it. Maybe if she hurled it straight at this hideous creature's bearded face it would distract him long enough for her to be able to get away. And in any case, that was all that he was really after, wasn't it? The Orbis? Well, let him have it then, and let someone else sort this out.

Midge pretended to fumble in the carrier bag as she made up her mind which way to run. It would have to be the tunnel, after all. There was no other choice.

‘Is this what you want?' She drew the Orbis from the bag and held it up for the archer to see. Her fingers closed around the metal frame, getting a proper grip, getting ready to aim . . . but then she saw that he wasn't even looking at it. Not really. A horrible grin had spread across his face.

‘Aye,' he said. ‘'Twill do, now that 'tis here. But that ain't all I wants, maidy. I've other matters to settle with thee . . .'

Maidy. There was something in the way he said that word. A harsh twang to his voice that jolted through her. ‘And I've a greeting for thee, whilst we be here.' Slowly and deliberately the archer drew back the bow, his unblinking eye staring at her along the length of the arrow. ‘A greeting from my brother. Dost ever think of him? I wonder. His name be Scurl. Aye, ye Gorji brat – Scurl! He that were cast out from here because of thee! Think of him now, maidy. And let it be the last thought thee'll ever have.'

That same cold stare . . . that same sharp-toothed snarl. The terrifying ghost of Scurl was in that look,
and Midge felt the blood draining away from her arm, a sickening numbness spreading down through her insides. The Orbis flashed before her as it tumbled from her useless fingers. She was aware of it rolling down to the water's edge, and coming to a halt. But she couldn't shift her gaze. Couldn't take her eyes from—

‘
Ictor! Let her alone!
'

The shout came from high above her – above and behind – but still Midge was locked in her trance as the archer swung the bow away from her and immediately fired into the air.

‘Ach!' Midge heard the grunt of pain and the sound broke the spell. She turned to look up, and immediately ducked, throwing her arms out in defence against the shadow that descended upon her, a dark shape that came tumbling from the skies. She glimpsed outstretched wings . . . a spear . . . and was then thrown to the ground, her ears ringing from the force of whatever had struck her.

The weight of her attacker was upon her and she was winded to her stomach. She saw an arrow . . . and then blood. Hers? With a final heave she broke free, gasping for breath, and realized what had hit her. It was Maglin. And the blood wasn't hers, but his. He'd been shot. The arrow was sticking in his leg – a horrible thing to see – and he was lying on his side, trying to push himself upright.

‘Urrrgh!' Maglin managed to get himself into a sitting position. He reached out, attempting to manoeuvre himself towards the spear that lay on the ground nearby, but then collapsed again, the breath hissing out of him.

‘Ictor!' His voice was a gasp of agony. ‘I s'll . . . see thee rot for this . . .'

On the other side of the stream, the archer – Ictor – had already notched another arrow to his bow. Midge rolled over onto her knees, her palms resting on the damp earth. She was dazed and winded, but in any case too shocked to move further. What was
happening
here?

‘See me rot?' Ictor calmly raised his bow. ‘Thee'll be seeing naught o' me, Maglin. And naught of any other in this world. This be my time, and yours be over. One more arrow, that's all thee'll ever see. And then 'twill be the turn o' this Gorji brat . . .' Ictor swung the bow back towards Midge. ‘Though maybe I should do her first . . .'

‘Bist mad?' Maglin growled. ‘Leave her be.'

‘Ha! I shall leave her be, Maglin, don't 'ee fret. And thee also. I shall leave 'ee lying face down, the pair of 'ee. Aye, and all else here shall be lying alongside 'ee afore we'm done.'

‘We? I see but one archer, Ictor. You can't kill us all.'

‘I've no need. Once this Gorji brat be dealt with, then her kind'll come looking for her soon enough. 'Tis they that'll empty this place for us.'

‘What? Thee'd bring all the Gorji down upon us a-purpose?'

‘Aye,' said Ictor. ‘I would. And let 'em come. Let 'em roast every last one of 'ee on a spit. We s'll be gone. And when the Gorji've left your bones to rot, then we shall return – if we ain't a'ready found a better place. So. First the maid, and then thee . . .'

‘Urrrghh . . .' Maglin was struggling to his feet, and at the same time grasping the arrow. ‘
Grrrrragh!
' He wrenched the thing from his leg and stumbled forward, bending low, trying to get to the spear. Midge saw Ictor shift his stance in order to redirect his aim. The cruel grin on his face said that he knew there was no need for haste. Maglin would never be able to reach the weapon quickly enough to use it. Ictor waited until Maglin's fingers were hovering above the spear before fully drawing back the string.

‘Aye – pick 'un up!' he sneered. ‘If 'ee can find the strength, thee old sag-a-bones! And let's sithee try and throw it.'

‘
We'll
return? Who?' Maglin was breathless with pain. ‘Who be with you in this?'

‘Ha! Can 'ee not guess? 'Tis Scurl! Aye, my brother Scurl – one that thee'd never thought to see again, eh, Steward? And when all of the Various have been hunted down, and the giants've gone, then this place shall be ours. Mine and Scurl's alone, as we've long
planned. And everything here shall be ours . . . the Orbis and the Stone . . . aye . . . the Stone . . .' Ictor raised his eyebrows as though this thought had only just occurred to him. ‘And whilst thee and thine lie rotting we s'll live easy. Now curse the day, Maglin, as you ever cast a brother o' mine to the Gorji. I wish he were here now to watch thee die along wi' this meddling snip. No matter. 'Twill cheer him when he hears of it.'

‘But Scurl's dead. Just today . . . I saw it happen.'

Midge hadn't meant to say it – the words simply spilled out.

She was crouching on all fours, her eyes locked on Ictor's. She saw those eyes blink, and turn slowly towards her, a look of confusion, disbelief.

‘What did 'ee say?' Ictor's twisted mouth spat the words at her.

‘Scurl. He's . . . he's drowned. I saw it. He fell off a bridge and into the water. A weir. There was a pike . . . a huge thing. It dragged him . . . it dragged him down under . . .'

Midge stopped talking. She stared beyond Ictor's wild eyes to see a shadow . . . a grey shadow rising up behind the archer, a ghostly creeping form that spread itself like a cape about Ictor's shoulders. But not a cape – a figure, silently appearing from the bushes, hood thrown back to reveal a familiar face. Tadgemole! He was carrying some leather thing in his hand . . . raising it up . . . a sack or a bag . . .

‘
Dead?
' Ictor had found his senses. His scream of rage rang through the woodland. ‘
Yaarrrrgghhh!
' He
jabbed the bow towards Midge once more, teeth bared and snarling, arrow drawn back full . . .

‘Leave her be, heathen!' Tadgemole stepped to one side, arms raised, and swung the leather sack in a great whirling arc. Ictor had barely time to turn his head as the bag caught him square on the temple – and with such a blow that the sound of shattering bone was as loud as a whip-crack.