‘Nae Feegles,’ said Tiffany firmly. A sudden burst of inspiration hit her. ‘I need you just here, Rob Anybody,’ she told him. ‘I have to do my hag business with the King without anyone disturbing me.’ She paused. ‘And there are elves afoot. So if any should come seekin’ their king, I want you – Rob Anybody, Wee Dangerous Spike, all of ye – to stop them coming down after me. I need you to do this for me. It’s important. Is that understood?’
There was a bit of grumbling, but Rob had brightened up. ‘So we can gi’ them scunners a guid kickin’ if they shows up here?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ Tiffany said wearily.
This was met by a cheer. ‘Nac Mac Feegle, wha hae!’
She left them there, squabbling over who should guard which part of the Long Man, Wee Dangerous Spike bashing his head enthusiastically against the entrance stones again as a sort of warmup for what he hoped was coming, and she walked into the stinky darkness, clutching the small crowbar she had brought with her, along with a horseshoe. She put one hand into her pocket and held tight on to the shepherd’s crown – her ground, her turf. Let’s see if I am truly the hag of the hills, she thought, and she gripped the big stone blocking the entrance.
It rose up gently, no crowbar necessary, the stone crackling as she raised it higher and higher, revealing the steps beyond. The path inside led her deeper and darker, spiralling round and round, taking her into the heart of the barrow.
Into a pathway between the worlds.
Into the world of the elven King, where he floated between time and space in his land of pleasure. It was stifling, though there was no fire – the heat seemed to be coming out of the earth.
And it stank. It reeked of masculinity and unwashed clothing, of feet and sweat. There were bottles everywhere, and at the end of the hall, naked men were wrestling, grunting and groaning as they twined and twisted with their opponents, their bodies greased as if from a bucket of lard. There were no women to be seen – this was a land where men indulged themselves with no thought for the other sex. But when they saw Tiffany, they stopped and put their hands over their essentials – as Nanny Ogg would have said – and Tiffany thought: Ha, you big strong men, your meat and two veg hanging out, you are frightened, aren’t you? I am the maiden – and I am also the hag.
She could see the King of the Elven Races. He was just as Nanny Ogg had described, still stinking of course, but somehow hugely attractive. She kept her eyes on the horns on his head, trying not to look at his meat and veg, which were huge.
The King sighed, stretching out his legs and tapping his hooves against the wall, an animal scent like that of a badger in heat rising from him and curling towards her. ‘You, young woman,’ he said lazily, his voice an invitation to romance, to wickedness, to pleasures you had not known you wanted until that moment. ‘You come into my world. Into my entertainments. You are a witch, are you not?’
‘Indeed I am,’ said Tiffany, ‘and I am here to ask the King of the Elves to be a proper king.’
He moved closer and Tiffany tried not to blanch as the stench of him thickened. He smiled lasciviously, causing her to think, I know who you are and what you are, and I think Nanny Ogg must have liked you . . .
‘Who are you?’ he queried. ‘By your garb, you seem indeed to be a witch, but witches are old and somewhat wrinkled. You, girl . . .’
Sometimes, Tiffany thought, I am so fed up with being young.fn2 My youth has got his attention, but what I need is his respect.
‘I may be young, my lord,’ she said firmly, ‘but as you see, I am a ha— a witch. And I come to tell you that I have killed three of your people.’
That should do it, she thought, but the King merely laughed. ‘You interest me, my girl,’ he said, stretching languorously. ‘I do no harm,’ he added lazily. ‘I simply dream, but my people, oh dear, what can I do? I must allow them their delights, as I do myself.’
‘But their delights are not to our taste,’ said Tiffany. ‘Not in my world.’
‘My world?’ chuckled the King. ‘Oh, you have pride, little girl. Perhaps you would like to be one of my ladies. A queen needs pride . . .’
‘The Lady Nightshade is your queen,’ said Tiffany firmly, her legs shaking at the invitation in the King’s words. To stay here? With him? her mind shrieked. She gripped the shepherd’s crown more firmly. I am Tiffany Aching, of the Chalk, she said to herself, and I have flint in my soul. ‘Nightshade is my . . . guest,’ she added. ‘Perhaps you did not know, my lord, that your queen has been thrown from Fairyland by the Lord Peaseblossom?’
A lazy smile spread across the King’s face. ‘Nightshade . . .’ he mused. ‘Well, I hope you enjoy her company.’ He spread his legs, making Tiffany gulp, and leaned forward. ‘You begin to tire me now, girl. What do you want from me?’
‘Get your elves to see sense,’ said Tiffany. ‘Or there will be a reckoning.’ Her voice almost wobbled on the last bit of this, but it had to be said, oh yes.