The Various by Steve Augarde Page B

and his archers were all seemingly willing to go, did not surprise him – though he noted wryly that one or two of them had originally voted
against
sending out a party. Phemra and Spindra he had expected. Little-Marten, the Woodpecker, sat on his Perch with his arm raised, the young fool. Aken, Glim and the rest of the North and East Wood archers had the sense apparently, to keep their hands down. Good. He could ill afford to lose them. Isak, Will and Tod of the Wisp had indicated that they would go. Several of the Troggles and Tinklers, whose names he did not know, had also raised their arms. That did surprise him. What was Pegs to them? He sighed. He would pick five – one from each tribe. That would be seen to be fair. But should he pick the five most likely to succeed, or the five he could most easily lose? For he had little faith in their return. He would sleep on it, and decide in the morning.
    ‘I shall choose five,’ he announced. The clearing was now hushed. ‘One from each tribe. And I shall make my choice known at sunrise. ’Tis better we all sleep on this. ’Twould be better still,’ he couldn’t help adding, ‘if we knew whether Pegs were alive or dead this night. But that we cannot tell.’
    ‘
I
can tell.’ The voice, harsh but clear, had come from somewhere behind Ba-betts, and there were many in the crowd who thought at first that it was the Queen who had spoken – but Ba-betts had leapt to her feet in fright and spun round. She lost her grip on the Touchstone as she did so, and the heavy ball of red jasper was flung from her hand, landing with a soft thump in the damp grass, a few feet from the Gondla. All eyes followed the direction of the Queen’s startled gaze. A strange, humpbacked creature emerged from the dark fringe of trees close to the Royal Oak. The thin face and long straggling hair had been dyed green, to match the patched and tattered green robe that hung in folds from the stooping figure. Trails of ivy were wound about the creature’s neck. The ivy rustled slightly as the wild-looking apparition moved slowly towards the Gondla, a skinny painted arm outstretched. It was Maven-the-Green.
    ‘By Elysse, ’tis the old crone,’ muttered Maglin. He left his position at the Whipping Stone and strode quickly across the clearing. The Queen was standing, open-mouthed in fright, as she gripped the side of the wicker chair – hypnotized it seemed by the approaching figure of Maven-the-Green. Maglin beckoned to the four Ickri guards who were positioned at the foot of the Royal Oak. ‘Hold, till I speak,’ he muttered, as he passed them. He ran the last few paces towards the Gondla, in order to reach the Queen before Maven did.
    ‘Maven!’ he called warningly, ‘Bide there!’ He began to unsling his bow. There was no telling what the fey old creature might do. She was known to carry a little blowpipe within the folds of her sleeve – and the darts she used were said to be tipped with deadly poisons of her own devising. The slightest scratch from one of Maven’s darts could supposedly kill a full-grown brock, stone dead in two winks. Maglin had never known her to actually harm any of the tribespeople, despite her frequent threats and curses, but he would take no chances with her. He notched an arrow to his bow, and stood at the ready beside the Gondla.
    Maven had stopped. Her thin arm, streaked with paint or dye, still reached out – seemingly in the direction of Ba-betts – but her eye was on the ground. She stooped, as everyone watched in silence, and the green fingers of her outstretched hand reached down and grasped the Touchstone, which lay, half-hidden, in the damp grass. She lifted it gently, and brought it towards her ivy-wreathed body, laying her other hand over the top of the red globe – wet with the evening dew – in a protective, cradling gesture. She wiped the stone dry on the emerald sleeve of her gown.
    Ba-betts looked at Maglin and said, indignantly, ‘That’s