never did like animals much. But it was all a mistake. The Flood never came!”
“Why?” asked Paul. “Were the stars wrong?”
“They weren’t wrong,” snapped Tanboule. “The stars don’t lie–but they can be mischievous. There’s nothing they like better than a joke, particularly if it’s a long one, played on someone who deserves it.”
“Why did you deserve it?” asked Paul as they descended to the long platform, which he already thought of as the “main deck”.
“I deserved it because I was wise and selfish,” sighed Tanboule, flicking a tear from a white-browed eye. “Now, I am wiser (I hope) and less selfish. Which reminds me—why are you here?”
“Well…” began Paul, but Tanboule interrupted him, crying out: “Cabbage! The cabbage is burning! Come on, lad–save the cabbage. You can tell me your story over dinner!”
Over a dinner of slightly burnt cabbage, bacon, tea and thick, crusty bread, Paul explained his troubles to Tanboule. At first, the old man hadn’t seemed terribly interested, but he soon became more serious and asked Paul many questions, particularly about Julia and the pyramid of flaming sticks that had transported Paul from his world to that of Tanboule (as he put it).
“So,” said Paul, when he had told all he could remember. “Will you help me?”
Tanboule sighed and rubbed his great white eyebrows with the back of a gnarled hand. “We will help you, Paul–but I fear that more than good advice is needed here. For your story is but a little part of a bigger story, one in which many people have played their parts, for better or for worse or for no effect at all.”
“What do you mean?” asked Paul, who thought his troubles were complicated enough already. The fact that they might be like one tiny part of a huge puzzle was both terrifying and hard to understand.
“It is partly your story,” said Tanboule, taking a great swig of his tea, “because it is the story of the Ragwitch. A long and sadly true tale which has yet to find a happy ending. Since it will undoubtedly have some bearing on your troubles, I suppose I’d better tell it to you–though this particular tale is worth far more than the planting of one hundred and thirty-two cabbages. Fetch me another cup of tea, Paul, while I compose my voice.”
Composing his voice seemed to entail Tanboule eating more bread, so Paul poured himself some more tea as well while he was waiting. Not that the drink was exactly what he’d call tea–it was sweeter, and scented with lemon and raspberry, but it was made from similar leaves and boiling water.
At last Tanboule finished eating and, stretching himself back, began, without introduction, his rambling tale–part history, part legend, but mostly a true account of an ancient evil.
“Quite a few centuries ago, this Kingdom was a less settled place than it is now,” began Tanboule. “There were no northern towns or castles, and fell creatures held sway over the lands north of the river Twyn and regularly came south to raid the smaller towns and villages.
“These raids, by such creatures as the Gwarulch, were an accepted part of life, albeit an unsavoury part. But, as such acceptance is wont to do, it merely prolonged the crisis that was to arrive.
“In this case, the raids became worse, and after a few years, the creatures were no longer merely raiding, but actually conquering the northern marches of the Kingdom.
“The King in those times was a lazy fellow, addicted to the quiet contemplation of dragonflies on mirror-smooth lakes. In fact, he even had a mechanical dragonfly that flew over a pool of the stillest mercury. Without his active control, the Canton Lords each tried to deal with the problem individually–but they failed to check the hordes of North-Creatures that were pouring over the Twyn. At last, the creatures came to the inner Cantons of Salace and Thrisk–and the King was forced to do something.
“Fortunately, he did the right thing, which was to abdicate in favour of his son, who became King Mirran the Ninth. He was the total opposite of the old, dragonfly-watching King, and he gathered his army and attacked the North-Creatures, driving them back across the Twyn and into the far north.
“This took several years, of course, and during that time the nature of the war changed. And sadly, it was King Mirran who was responsible for the changes and the destruction that was to come of them.
“You see, all through this long war, Magic had played no part. There were more Sorcerers, Wizards, Witches and even mere dabblers about in those days, but the Patchwork King would not allow them the use of Magic for war.”
“The Patchwork King?” asked Paul. “Who was he?”
“He ruled, and as far as I know still rules, in the land of Dreams and Shadows, where everything that could be is and isn’t at the same time–and if you can understand that, you’re wiser than all of us here at Rhysamarn. But it is from this land that all Magic stems, and it is to this land that all Magic-Workers must go, though now I doubt if any more than a handful know the way.
“This was not always so, for there were tales and legends of an Age of Magic, when wars were fought with all manner of Magic. Yet no true records survived from this Age and it became no more than a legend known only to a few who sought after ancient lore.
“One such person was a young Witch, who worked as a healer with the King’s Army, for the Patchwork King allowed Magic for this purpose…”
“A Witch?” interrupted Paul. “I thought they were always evil?”
“Whatever gave you that idea?” asked Tanboule. “They’re like everybody else–good, bad or middling. Anyway, she sought greater powers, and when not actively working, she researched ancient lore, talked among the stars and learnt spells that had been lost for many centuries.
“It was this learning that she took to the King. For somewhere she had learnt of the Angarling: ancient warriors turned to stone and submerged beneath the sea in the shallow waters off the Sleye peninsula. These warriors, she told the King, had sworn to serve against evil, but had been taken unawares by an enemy Sorcerer and turned to stone. The existence of these Angarling proved that the ancient wars of Magic had occurred, and that there had been a time when the Patchwork King did not rule all Magic.
“Obviously, these Angarling knights were from this time, before the Patchwork King, so he would not be able to forbid their use. Furthermore, the spells required to wake them and make them serve were also from a time outside the reign of the Patchwork King–and the Magic the spells contained did not come from his land of Dreams and Shadows.
“Anxious for any help, the King agreed to let the Witch do her work. Foolishly, he did not consider one obvious fact: that if this waking Magic did not come from the Patchwork King, it could only belong to that other, Nameless Realm, so long closed to mankind–a place of death and witless violence, nightmares and fear, ruled by no one and composed only of a raw, ungovernable power…a power wishing the destruction of all life that did not worship it.
“Indeed, the Witch had already gone too far in her researches, and had been tainted by the lure of this power. With the King’s permission she continued, and opened one forgotten door too many. She walked within the dark void beyond and exchanged her heart for power, and her love became a lust for slaughter and dominion over every living thing.
“She danced the steps of Seven Wakenings, and the Angarling made their heavy way out of the sea at Sleye. But not to join the King. She cast
