Witch Crag (15 page)

He raised himself on his hands. Kita gasped. There, on the black rock, his face a mask of defiance and rage, was Arc.

“Stay down! Move and I'll spit you!” Wekka cried, aiming her blackbow at Arc's head. “This poison kills in seconds. Doubt it and it'll be the last thing you doubt.”

“Wekka, be calm!” cried Vild, as she hurried over. “Don't let fly!”

Wekka lowered her weapon slightly. “There were three others,” she said. “Sheepmen footsoldiers. This likely lad was ahead of the rest of them, scaling the north face. His three friends scarpered when they saw us swarming down towards them.” She grinned with satisfaction. “We made sure we looked wild and witchy, like we'd have the flesh off their bones. But laddy here –” she cuffed Arc, who snapped his head away, furiously – “he didn't stand a chance. We climbed down and got him.”

Furtively, Kita stepped back, and hid behind some of the others. She was frozen; dreading Arc seeing her.

Another of the warrior witches spoke up. “Tell us what you were doing.
Spy
.”

Arc was silent, glaring.

“Kill him!” shouted someone in the crowd.

“Put an arrow in him!” screamed another voice.

“
No!
” cried Vild. “Since when have we behaved like them?”

“Since they started slaughtering us!” A witch in a faded yellow cloak darted out from the crowd. “I was there, remember, gathering red saffrey with Finchy in the forest. I saw them seize her. I was helpless to help. And
he
–” she pointed with a shaking, hate-filled finger at Arc – “he was the leader of their little troupe. He ordered her seized! And then she was
slit
!”

The crowd of witches keened and growled. “Shoot him dead!” shrieked someone, and the cry was taken up, a murmur first, then a grim chant,
shoot him, shoot him
, growing in intensity. Wekka stepped away from Arc, and slowly and deliberately raised her blackbow, aiming at his face.

Before she could think or even know what she was feeling, Kita pushed her way through and ran towards Arc. She stood right in front of him, facing down Wekka and her dripping arrow. “He didn't slit Finchy!” she cried. “I saw it. He – he disobeyed the headman. He tried to
stop
her being killed.”

Arc had raised his head; he gazed at Kita. “
You!
” he breathed.

She wouldn't look at him. She continued to look steadily at Wekka, who snarled, “Get back, newcomer. If the majority of witches say he dies, he dies. That's how we work here.”

“But not on mad impulse!” cried Vild, coming forward, standing beside Kita. “Not in the white heat of the moment. We don't know what help he can be! Don't act in haste.”

“
Well?
” demanded Wekka, of the crowd. Finchy's friend and a few others shouted, “
Kill him!
” but from the rest there was only muttering.

Wekka waited for a full minute. Then she said, “Truss him up. Put him in the shallow cave. Leave him bound until you've fashioned strong wood stakes to bar it. Until then, guard him.”

Arc was hauled away.

Kita was shaking. It was some time since Arc had been dragged off, but she was still shaking. She slunk off on her own, to where she and Vild and Nada had talked the day she arrived on the crag, hoping no one would find her.

Why did he come?
she thought, in anguish.
Why did he have to come here?
She kept seeing him pitching forward, sprawling on the hard rock. The sudden violence of the witches terrified her; she dreaded their questions. She'd just announced to everyone that she'd seen Finchy being slit, and done nothing to save her. Where did that leave her? She thought of Vild saying
witches aren't sweetness and light
.

In the distance, she could hear wood being sawn, split. They were making a cage for Arc. She couldn't even look at what had made her leap to Arc's defence. It was like something she couldn't own had grabbed her by the scruff of the neck, and thrown her out in front of him. She wanted to talk to someone – Vild, or Nada, or Raff and Quainy – but no one came to find her. The open, glorious friendliness of the place – it seemed to have vanished. She was scared to go out into the open again.

In the end, in the late afternoon, hunger drew her forth. She skirted round the cookhouse, and was given fruit and bread. Then, head lowered, she wandered down to the main concourse. It was obvious even from a distance where Arc was being held. In front of one of the great outcrops of rock that broke up the summit of Witch Crag, people slowed and stopped in shifting, changing groups. They talked, looked – moved on. Kita edged nearer, joined the group on its outskirts. Over their heads she could just see the hollow in the rock face, the shallow cave – and the fierce line of sharpened wooden staves that had been driven into the ground in front of it. Anxious, angry conversation flowed all around her.

“What's the sense of keeping him alive? He'll have to be killed.”

“Maybe he'll tell us something first. Maybe he knows something about the old city that will help us.”

“He won't help us! You saw his face!”

“She's right. The sheepmen hate us!”

“He'll have to be killed.”

“Shame. He's a fine young man.”

“And we're always low on men – maybe we can keep him as stud!”

Cackling laughter followed this last remark. Kita grimaced, and pushed her way closer to the wooden stakes. Something compelled her, though she dreaded Arc seeing her. Then – abruptly – Vild was in front of her, coming the opposite way. “Kita!” she cried. “Come away, sweetheart. Don't add to the crowds round him. He's swearing and snarling. Calling us all foul and evil. I can't get a sensible word out of him.”

Kita allowed herself to be towed off to the side. “Can't you just tell everyone to leave him alone?” she mumbled.

Vild looked at her wryly. “No, I can't. Everyone makes their own choices here. Unless there's immediate danger – then Wekka takes control.”

“You won't get anything out of Arc while he's treated like an animal in a cage.”

“He can signal any time that he wants to parley.”

“He won't, he's stubborn.”

“Then that's
his
choice. Will you walk with me?” Vild tucked her hand through Kita's arm and steered her towards the far edges of the crag, where the high wooden wall loured. The fresh spring wind flowed over the top to meet them. “Let's walk the perimeter,” said Vild. “We witches often do. Some of us run it. When we feel a little penned in.”

“You feel
penned in
, here?” Kita asked, taken aback.

“Of course we do, sometimes.”

“But it's so harmonious, and beautiful, and. . .”

“. . . small. That's another reason we're keen to get out into the world and convince it to like us.” After a few minutes' strolling, Vild said, “Kita, why didn't you tell me before that you'd seen poor Finchy die?”

“I don't know,” muttered Kita. “Because it seemed so horrible, I suppose.”

“They should never have gone.” Vild sighed. “It was too dangerous, with the horsemen brides just escaped. Men were bound to be out searching.”

“Why did they go?”

“To gather red saffrey. It's such an important flower for us – we dry it as a preservative, the best we know. Fresh food sprinkled with it lasts all winter. Finchy insisted she'd pick some. It only grows in early spring, in the woods on the edge of the sheepmen grasslands. She paid a terrible price for it.”

They walked on, past the racks of drying dyed cloth which fluttered like huge colourful flags in the wind. “You know, there was another reason for her going,” said Vild, lowering her voice a little. “Nada had been telling her about
you
and she hoped she'd somehow connect with you, help you come to us. She'd been dreaming about you, you see. Kita? Kita, what's wrong?”

Kita had stopped; she felt like she could hardly breathe. “She did connect with me,” she croaked. “I was hidden up high – I watched her die. And as she did – she looked straight at me. It had . . . it had a great effect on me.”

There was nothing more to be said. They walked on, round the great perimeter, and with every step Kita was aware of Arc in his prison. She was circling him, now close, now at a distance, as if there was a thread fastened between them. She took in a deep breath and said, “Vild, tell me about this
work
you do. What do you mean by it? I can see that you help the children snatched from the old city, and you help girls like me escape, but it seems to be about even more than that.”

“Yes, even more.” Vild smiled. “It's about – what was it Nada called it?
The greater good
. We think our ways are good. Democratic, fair, happy.
Free
. We're trying to infect people with them.”

“But people won't listen to you when they think you're evil.”

“Yes, that's a problem. In the beginning we just strove to protect ourselves, and we did it rather too well. What protects us also makes us feared. But increasingly, we're breaking through. We're well on the way to a real bond with the farmers. At heart, they're decent people. They're happy to trade with us and learn from us. And for some months now we've had two subversive witchmen in among the horsemen.”

“How did you manage that?” asked Kita, astonished.

“Surprisingly easily. They presented themselves at the horsemen fort as wandering mercenaries. The horsemen were glad to take them in. We lost two good fighters – but the subtle influence they're spreading is worth far more. And of course, they helped the brides escape.”

“Do you have anyone with the sheep people?”

“Only people who aren't aware that they're working for us. Like Nada. And you, my lovely! The need is more urgent with the horsemen. Some of their ways are vile, not much better than the old city.”

“Do you have anyone there? In the old city?”

Vild seemed to subside, as if the thought saddened her. “No,” she said. “A deputation of witches went, before my time – only two came back. The others had been killed. Probably eaten. And the decision was made that – the city is beyond help. For all the faults of the new tribes, they're moving into the future, supporting themselves by farming, hunting, trade – the city does none of this. It's like a fungus, surviving on the rot of the old world. And now the fungus wants to spread out and feed off what we've worked to create. What I'd love is—” She broke off.

“What?” asked Kita.

“I wish I could scoop up all the children in the city. I wish I could save them. Before they turn to cannibalism and despair.”

“Oh, Vild. So the farmers really do rescue them, when they take them as slaves.”

“We think so. Especially the ones they pass on to us. I saw you playing with a few of them, earlier.”

There was a silence. Then Kita said, “Go on about the horsemen. They're not beyond help?”

“Oh, no,” said Vild, her voice lifting. “They make their own way in the world – hunting boar, fighting and plundering – but mostly only those who would fight and plunder them first. They have an intelligent pact with the sheepmen, and a basic if corrupt democracy. And I'm rather partial to the fermented berry juice they brew! Kita – it's the horse
women
who are driving this change, in subtle, powerful ways – they long for change and increasingly, the young men wish it, too. Only those old warriors glutted on the privileges of power and status fight to resist it. But our witchmen report there are signs that their time is ending. The horse people are easier to shift than you stubborn sheep people! You're impenetrable in your virtuous plainness. Your belief that feeling pleasure is wrong.”

“Not my belief, Vild.”

“No. Not yours, dearling. I wonder if it's the belief of that young buck we have penned.”

But Kita didn't want to talk about Arc. She quickened her pace a little, and said, “So your work is for the greater good. Vild, how do you know? How do you
know
what's good? And how do you know which way to help people?”

Vild shrugged, smiling. “It's not written in stone, Kita. In fact it's not written at all. The best image I can give you is – you see a stream, clogged with leaves and debris, bogging down the land around it, not running its course. Don't you just unblock it, clear it, let it flow again?”

“It sounds so . . . so
vague
.”

“Maybe. But there's no one way. Everyone's different. We don't preach – no point. We discuss and suggest and encourage and share. And we believe that freedom and happiness will win out in the end, however long it takes. We hope for a unified future, with the flow of trade and discussion and respect and learning between us all. But achieving that open unity will be a long, slow process – and now there's a war coming.” Vild stopped walking; she turned and faced Kita. “Somehow, and soon, we must all link together, Kita. The witches, the farmers, the sheepmen, the horsemen. We must make a strong protective chain, or the rotting city will break through and devour us all. And I don't know how that chain's to be forged.”