Wintersmith

He turned to look down on his fellow Feegles and banged on Roland’s helmet for silence.
    “Okay, lads,” he announced. “We’re no’ leavin’!”
    W HAT ? said the ferryman. O H NO , YOU LEAVE ! I’ M NOT HAVING YOU DOWN HERE AGAIN ! W E ’ RE STILL FINDING THE BOTTLES FROM LAST TIME ! C OME ON , GET ON THE BOAT THIS MINUTE !
    “Crivens, we canna do that, pal,” said Rob Anybody. “We’re under a geas to help this lad, ye ken. Where he disna go, we dinna go!”
    P EOPLE ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO WANT TO STAY HERE ! snapped the ferryman.
    “Ach, we’ll soon ha’ the old place jumpin’ again,” said Rob Anybody, grinning.
    The ferryman drummed his fingers on the pole. They made a clicking sound, like dice.
    O H , ALL RIGHT THEN . B UT — AND I WANT TO BE CLEAR ON THIS — THERE IS TO BE NO SINGING !
    Roland dragged the girl onto the boat. The bogles kept clear of that, at least, but as the ferryman pushed away from the shore, Big Yan kicked Roland on the boot and pointed upward. Scribbles of orange light, hundreds of them, were moving across the roof of the cavern. There were more of them on the opposite shore.
    “How’s the Plan goin’, Mister Hero?” asked Rob Anybody quietly as he climbed down from the boy’s helmet.
    “I’m waiting for the opportune moment,” said Roland haughtily. He turned to look at the not-Tiffany. “I’m here to get you out,” he said, trying not to look directly at her eyes.
    “You?” said the not-Tiffany, as if the idea were amusing.
    “Well, us,” Roland corrected himself. “Everything is—”
    There was a bump as the boat grounded on the farther shore, where the bogles were as thick as standing corn.
    “Off ye go, then,” said Big Yan.
    Roland pulled the not-Tiffany along the path for a few steps, and stopped. When he blinked, the path ahead was a writhing orange mass. He could feel the little pulls on him, no stronger than a breeze. But they were in his brain, too. Cold, and nibbling. This was stupid. It couldn’t work. He wouldn’t be able to do it. He wasn’t any good at this sort of thing. He was wayward and inconsiderate and disobedient, just like his…aunts…said.
    Behind him, Daft Wullie shouted, in his cheerful way, “Make yer aunties proud of ye!”
    Roland half turned, suddenly angry. “My aunts ? Let me tell you about my aunts—”
    “No time, laddie!” shouted Rob Anybody. “Get on wi’ it!”
    Roland looked around, his mind on fire.
    Our memories are real, he thought. And I will not stand for this!
    He turned to the not-Tiffany and said: “Don’t be afraid.” Then he held out his left hand and whispered, under his breath: “I remember…a sword….”
    When he shut his eyes, there it was—so light he could barely feel it, so thin he could hardly see it, a line in the air that was made up mostly of sharpness. He’d killed a thousand enemies with it, in the mirror. It was never too heavy, it moved like part of him, and here it was. A weapon that chopped away everything that clung and lied and stole.
    “Mebbe ye can make a Hero all in one go,” said Rob Anybody thoughtfully, as bogles scribbled themselves into existence and died. He turned to Daft Wullie. “Daft Wullie?” he said. “Can ye bring to mind when it was I told ye that sometimes ye say exactly the right thing ?”
    Daft Wullie looked baffled. “Noo that ye mention it, Rob, I dinna recall ye ever sayin’ that, ever.”
    “Aye?” said Rob. “Weel, if I had done, just now would ha’ been one o’ those times.”
    Daft Wullie looked worried. “That’s all right though, aye? I said somethin’ right?”
    “Aye. Ye did, Daft Wullie. A First. I’m proud o’ ye,” said Rob.
    Daft Wullie’s face split in an enormous grin. “Crivens! Hey, lads, I said—”
    “But dinna get carried awa’,” Rob added.
    As Roland swung the airy blade, the bogles parted like spiderwebs. There were more, always more, but the silver line always found them, cutting him free. They backed away, tried new shapes, recoiled from the heat of the anger in his head. The sword hummed. Bogles curled around the blade and squealed, and sizzled into nothingness on the floor—
    —and someone was banging on his helmet. They’d been doing so for quite a while.
    “Huh?” he said, opening his eyes.
    “Ye’ve run oot,” said Rob Anybody. His chest heaving, Roland looked around. Eyes open or shut, the caves were empty of orange streaks. The not-Tiffany was watching him with a strange smile