Mid-afternoon of that day, they passed from dirt and scrubby hill-slopes onto the rocky outcroppings that marked the lower spurs of the mountains. Caewen looked downhill, and said, “It’s no good. They’ll be on us by dusk. Look.”
She was right. The draig-riders had not even bothered to sortie over them again. Both of the draig had landed a little way downhill. The two grey-clad knights were greeting the first of the horse-mounted scouts. Soon enough they would be directing the trailing mass of soldiers and knights uphill. The column of fighting men stood now at such a close distance that the boy could make out the standards of various households. Just as he had found that the book-sent dreams had taught him letters in so many strange languages, he now–rather unexpectedly–discovered that he recognised heraldry. He saw the brown raven of House Maelstrel. The tower and three yellow stars of Tersh. The three armoured hands on a field of red that belonged to the Sargeld Family, and also the brother- sigil of three armoured hands on a black field for the bastard line of Aer-Saegeld. He shook his head at the names dancing through his head. Dimly, somewhere in the back of his mind he heard the voice of the elderly tutor: Very good, lad. Very good.
It unsettled him.
What had he allowed into his mind?
Meanwhile, Caewen asked Dapplegrim to ride up onto a stony outcropping that gave them a better view of the whole valley and the approach. “I’ll be able to look down on them coming up the winding path at least,” she murmured. “The approach is narrow. Only one or two will be able to come at us at a time. Not that it will do us very much good.” She looked at the boy. “I’m afraid this is where we must part. The Old Great Spell is what’s important now. Not any of us. Go.”
“But–“
“Go. Now.”
He was shaken by the ferocity of her voice. He slipped down from the saddle and took a couple steps away. She looked so powerful and strong and resilient mounted on the great black and grey monster of a horse. She looked like no army, nor draig-rider, nor anything could kill her and Dapplegrim… but the boy knew that was foolish. Everyone dies and everyone can be killed by something bigger and meaner. Even heroes. Even gods and goddesses. Salt was stinging inside the corners of his eyes, just as the winds rose and whipped at him. He didn’t want to cry in front of his friends, so he turned his back and did his beast to control his increasingly ragged breathing. He took a few small steps away, then ran into the nearest scrubby stand of trees. He didn’t know how far or how long he ran before he stopped. Looking up, something far up above, high in the grey-blue air of the mountains made him stand still where he was. His heart started pounding.
He turned. He leapt into a sprint and tore back downhill, through the branches and the scrub. “Caewen! Dapplegrim! Caewen!” He was yelling in excitement. When he broke through the last of the prickly and heady-scented pine leaves, then out upon the clear space of flat rock where Caewen and Dapplegrim were both standing guard. The two of them turned, and looked at him with stupefied disbelief.
“What are you doing?” she yelled. “Go! Go now, you fool! The first knights will be here in moments.”
“No.” He needed to get his breath. “Wait. No. Wait. It’s Fleat.”
She looked puzzled, then there was hope in her eyes. Both Caewen and Dapplegrim exchanged glances. “Fleat?” she said.
But the boy didn’t have to explain. A big brown owl swooped down into the clearing and landed heavily on a branch that was just a little too thin to hold its weight easily. Fleat looked at them with his orange eyes and all his feathers fell away in a tumble. He said, quickly, “They agreed.”
“How many?” said Caewen.
“Every last one of us,” he replied. “All of them that can take the owl form and fight, and them that can’t take the owl form, but can fight with spear and arrow and poisoned barb.” As he spoke a darkness of wings glided out from the canopy of the scrubs: owls by the dozen with huge talons and cruel beaks descended from the sky and landed wherever they could. Moments later the thin, raised voices of singing reached them. A second wave of owls arrived, and these carried other hobbes upon their backs. The skin-changing talent didn’t run in all the Houlard families, but all hobbes are clever with arrows and poisons. These Hobs-Houlard were dressed for fighting in a more usual manner than a garb of feathers and claws. They wore leathers cut to look like red and brown feathers, and overlaid into a sort of scale armour. Their helms were shaped into owl heads. Their spears and bows had decorative golden claws worked into them.
Among the owls was one huge, old grey bird with a smattering of feathers missing from his head. A moment after this hoary creature alighted on the ground, an old bent man, withered and naked, was standing before them, his feet buried deep in drifts of grey-white feathers.
The boy recognised the elder who had refused to help so many days before: “We come, late, yes. But we come. Since you were gone, we have seen the truth of your words. Armies have been streaming southward, endlessly, through the Dragon Gates. Winged draig have attacked our kin so many times now that it is no longer safe to go abroad in ones or twos. Sooner or later, they will find our hidden valley, and we will be no better off than the poor souls in the slave villages. We come to fight, though I do not know what we small folk of birds and bows may do to win the day.”
“You will give us a better chance of winning than ever Dapplegrim and I had alone. But how did you move through the mountains? Didn’t the Boggarts move to stop you.”
The owl shook his head and looked uncomfortable. They left us alone. Whether they wanted us to pass through their realm unharmed, or whether it was because they were allowing us into a trap… well… who knows. And, we have had other assistance.”
“Assistance?” said Caewen. “From whom?”
The question was answered by the hobbes parting and moving aside. A shimmering, half-ethereal form appeared and moved as if she were gliding over the ground. Her eyes were radiant and her skin was so perfect as to be unsettling. It was the phantom of the Fane-Queen from the tomb. She looked more solid than she had before. And she wore armour and carried arms that were clearly very real. Behind her followed a dozen apparitions: all in white and dressed for war, in harness of white and gold fane-work, carrying great emblazoned shields and spears of ivory and old blood-red bronze.
The boy found himself speechless. Seemingly so too did Caewen and Dapplegrim.
“So they agreed?” managed Caewen, her voice more full of disbelief than anything else
– though my breathing body lies on cold stone, breathing its shallow breaths, i am here. i found the ghosts, as you suggested, and bade them enter my realm. i have given them such solidity of body as my powers can give.
“But are you ghost or real?” said the boy, before he caught himself.
Eyes turned to him. Bright orange owl eyes. Gleaming, clever hobbe eyes. The eyes of the ghostly women too: bright, and blue as the sky, and just as untouchable.
– both and neither, little bold one. we wear the woven flesh, after same fashion as the faer-folk. and we come to aid you now, for you have fought a good fight, and it would be good i think for you to fight in the days to come. you may yet be needed.
“But…” said Caewen. “Such power as that?”
– has near killed me. yes. my heart beats weakly now. my body of heart’s blood and living flesh is cold and shivering. it taxes me to send my apparition so far out of the tomb-place, and i leave nothing behind to defend my sleeping flesh… i may well succumb before the battle is done. but… this must be done. the spell of the ancient world-makers cannot be turned into a weapon for some petty war. if this fight kills me, so be it. i have slept too long, and too deeply in the dark death-tomb. all is as it shall be. i am acquitted to it.
Behind her, the ghostly figures spread out and formed a semi-circle. They gazed with their ice-blue eyes from Caewen, to the boy, to Dapplegrim.
The Fane-Queen smiled then – they have no voices, not yet. in time their strength will grow, but they wish to thank you, caewen ghost-freer, slave-freer, breaker of necromancy.
“You really do all look so much more–well–solid,” said the boy, still doing his best to understand what was happening.
The Fane-Queen’s mouth curved with a touch of a smile again. – solid enough, yes.
“And we thank you beyond all thanks,” cut in Caewen. “We thank you and thank you. And I thank all of you, hobbes and ghosts alike.”
The boy looked down over the cliffside then. “The knights have stopped. They aren’t advancing.”
Caewen nodded. “They’ve seen the force gathering. They are a night-folk. Many of them will hail from so far north that the world is always in twilight for them, and they see better and feel more comfortable in the darkness than in light. They will attack at dusk, I imagine.” She considered this, “Though night’s gloom may not do them so much good as they hope. After all, we’ve an army of owls and ghosts.”