‘Come by, Thunder. Away to me, Lightning,’ she whispered, the familiar commands filling her with courage.
Then she was suddenly awake, back in her room, You draped across her feet and an owl’s huge eyes hanging in the dark of the trees outside.
And someone was tapping on the window.
While the moon shone gloriously full over the stone circles, lighting a path for her wayward children, who rode through in their splendour . . .
fn1 Most everyday working witches believed the best use for a book was on a nail in the privy.
fn2 Part of him anyway, his memories being relocated to Tiffany’s mind following an episode early in her witching life. The rather pedantic wizard’s knowledge, especially of ancient languages, came in very handy sometimes, like when she wanted to read a peculiar menu in Ankh-Morpork.
CHAPTER 18
The Shepherd’s Crown
THERE WAS THE face of Rob Anybody, and he said, ‘The scunners are breaking through, Mistress Tiffany. It’s stairted!’
‘So cry “Crivens” and let loose the clan Mac Feegle!’ Tiffany commanded as a small group of Feegles scrambled out from under the bed, from where they had been watching over her. One of them appeared to have been hiding in her boots . . . he was now punching at the laces with a cry of ‘Tak’ tha’, yer nasty wrigglin’ little bogles!’
Boots, Tiffany thought. I wish I had brought Granny Weatherwax’s boots to wear for this fight. They would have given me strength. And then she stopped this thought. No. This is my land. My turf. My feet. My boots. My way . . .
But she still scolded herself as she struggled into her dress and thought that she should have slept with her day clothes on: What kind of leader are you?
As she stumbled to pull on her boots she felt a weight in the deep pocket of her fine black dress . . . and she pulled out the shepherd’s crown, which she thought she had put on the shelf. Had she put it there herself earlier that night? Ready for this moment?
And to the moon she said, ‘What is the shepherd’s crown? Whom does the shepherd’s crown serve?’
And the answer dropped into her head. ‘Tiffany Aching, Land under Wave.’
She twisted a thong of leather rapidly around the flint and hung it around her neck. She would go into battle with its power at her heart, she thought. The power of generations of Achings. Of Granny Aching. Of the shepherds of all time.
Then she ran down the darkened stairs and out of the door, locking it behind her, and was not surprised to see You the cat perched on the front of her broomstick, purring and looking smug, while Nightshade was stumbling from the barn, Wee Mad Arthur at her side.
Then she was flying through the silvery night, the elf Nightshade clutching at her waist, Feegles hanging on to the bristles, and the owls following behind her, a squadron of feathered allies . . .
Over in Lancre, Nanny Ogg was sleeping and her snores could have cut timber. Suddenly there was a mild explosion which might be called a grumph! and the cat, Greebo, woke up and sniffed the air.
Nanny had been sleeping in her day clothes. After all, she thought, who knew for sure when the elves would come.
She shouted, ‘Greebo, ring the castle bell.’
The cat was suddenly not there, but there was a blur of cat travelling at speed up to the castle, Greebo’s unmistakable smell lingering in the air behind him, and when the guard saw him coming towards him he ran after him into the bell tower.
And as the great castle bell tolled, light blossomed throughout the castle as candles were lit in every window, followed very shortly by the rest of Lancre Town. The bell! What danger was this?
In the royal bedchamber, Queen Magrat nudged her husband, who was still rubbing his eyes, and said, ‘Verence, help me buckle my escutcheon, will you, my dear?’
The King sighed. ‘Look, why can’t I go with you? It’s going to be dangerous.’
Magrat smiled. The smile that you gave loving but occasionally annoying husbands. This was old ground. ‘Well, someone has to be left at home,’ she said. ‘It’s like chess, you know. The Queen saves the King.’
‘Yes, dear,’ said the King and opened the cupboard that contained the armour of Queen Ynci. Ynci had been the most fearsome warrior queen Lancre had ever seen. Well, so the stories said, as she hadn’t actually existed. But the people of Lancre hadn’t let a tiny thing like that stop them adding her to their history, and so a set of armour had been made to go along with a portrait. Magrat had worn the armour the last time she faced the elves, and it seemed only right to wear it again.