Wintersmith

is to help you!”
    Rob backed away. Granny Weatherwax was the hag o’ all hags—he knew that. There was no telling what she might do to an errant Feegle.
    He picked up the pencil nervously, and placed the pointy end against the wood of the table. Other Feegles clustered around, but under Granny’s frown no one dared to even cheer him on.
    Rob stared upward, his lips moving and sweat beading his forehead.
    “Mmmmaa…” he said.
    “One,” said Granny.
    Rob blinked. “Hey? Who’s countin’?” he protested.
    “Me,” said Granny. The kitten You leaped onto her lap and curled up.
    “Crivens, ye never said there wuz gonna be countin’!”
    “Didn’t I? The rules can change at any time! Two!”
    Rob scribbled a passable M, hesitated, and then drew an R just as Granny said “Three!”
    “There’s gonna have tae be a ‘A’ in there, Rob,” said Billy Bigchin. He looked up defiantly at Granny and added: “I heard tell the rules can change at any time, right?”
    “Certainly. Five!”
    Rob scratched in an A and added another M in a burst of creativity.
    “Six and a half,” said Granny, calmly stroking the kitten.
    “Whut? Ach, crivens,” muttered Rob, and wiped a sweaty hand on his kilt. Then he gripped the pencil again and drew an L. It had a rather wavy foot because the pencil skidded out of his hands and the point broke.
    He growled and drew his sword.
    “Eight,” said Granny. Wood shavings flew as Rob hacked a rather ragged fresh point out of the pencil.
    “Nine.” An A and a D were scribbled by a Rob, whose eyes were now bulging and whose cheeks were red.
    “Ten.” Rob stood to attention, looking mostly nervous but slightly proud, beside MRAMLAD . The Feegles cheered, and those nearest to him fanned him with their kilts.
    “Eleven!”
    “Whut? Crivens!” Rob scurried back to the end of the word and plonked down a small e.
    “Twelve!”
    “Ye can count all ye want tae, mistress,” said Rob, flinging down the pencil, “but that’s all the marmalade there is!” This got another cheer.
    “An heroic effort, Mr. Anybody,” said Granny. “The first thing a hero must conquer is his fear, and when it comes to fightin’, the Nac Mac Feegles don’t know the meanin’ of the word.”
    “Aye, true enough,” Rob grunted. “We dinna ken the meanin’ o’ thousands o’ wurds!”
    “Can you fight a dragon?”
    “Oh, aye, bring it on!” He was still angry about the marmalade.
    “Run up a high mountain?”
    “Nae problemo!”
    “Read a book to the very end to save your big wee hag?”
    “Oh, aye.” Rob stopped. He looked cornered. He licked his lips. “How many o’ them pagey things would that be?” he said hoarsely.
    “Hundreds,” said Granny.
    “Wi’ wurds on both sides?”
    “Yes, indeed. In quite small writing!”
    Rob crouched. He always did that when he was cornered, the better to come up fighting. The mass of Feegles held their breath.
    “I’ll do it!” he announced grimly, clenching his fists.
    “Good,” said Granny. “Of course you would. That would be heroic—for you. But someone must go into the Underworld to find the real Summer Lady. That is a Story. It has happened before. It works. And he must do it in fear and terror like a real Hero should, because a lot of the monsters he must overcome are the ones in his head, the ones he brings in with him. It’s time for spring, and winter and its snow is still with us, so you must find him now . You’ve got to find him and set his feet on the path. The Path That Goes Down, Rob Anybody.”
    “Aye, we ken that path,” said Rob.
    “His name is Roland,” said Granny. “I reckon you should leave as soon as it is light.”

    The broomstick barreled through the black blizzard. Sticks usually went where the witches wanted them to go, and Tiffany lay along the broom, tried not to freeze to death, and hoped it was taking her home. She couldn’t see anything except darkness and rushing snow that stung her eyes, so she lay with the hat pulled down to streamline the stick. Even so, snowflakes struck her like stones and piled up on the stick. She had to flail around every few minutes to stop things from icing up.
    She did hear the roar of the falls below and felt the sudden depth of air as the stick glided out over the plains and began to sink. She felt cold to the bone.
    She couldn’t fight the Wintersmith, not like Annagramma could. Oh, she could plan to do it, and go to bed determined, but when she saw