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She had rallied the troops, though, and now the two ladies sat side by side in the castle hall, breathing in the peaty fumes from the fireplace – it was always, always cold there, even in the summer, which was why the fireplaces were so big and ate several small trees at a time. The kitchen staff had brought out a hasty tray with tea and little snacks – and yes, the sandwiches did have the crusts cut off to make them appropriately dainty for the two noble ladies. Magrat sighed – she really hoped Letitia at least asked for the crusts to be given to the birds. There was also a plate of rather wobbly cupcakes. fn2 ‘ I made those,’ Letitia said proudly. ‘Yesterday. From a recipe in Nanny Ogg’s new cookbook – you know, A Lot of What You Fancy Makes You Fat. ’ She coloured a little, and her hand crept self-consciously up to her bodice, where it was clear that when curves were being handed out, Letitia had been at the end of the line. Magrat took a cake by its little case rather carefully. Some of Nanny Ogg’s recipes could include. . . unusual ingredients, and she already had three children. She nibbled at the little cake, and the two ladies exchanged the usual pleasantries, with Magrat admiring a watercolour Letitia had painted of the chalk giant up on the downlands. It was surprisingly detailed, especially in the No Trousers area. Nanny Ogg would definitely have approved, Magrat thought. Then she got down to business. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, Letitia, but up in Lancre we’ve had enough of the elves. Something must be done. ’ ‘Oh dear, I’m sorry to say that Roland is about to write to Mistress Aching about the wave of elf raids and ask her what she’s proposing to do about them. There have been an awful lot of complaints, you know, and he’s out inspecting the damage. ’ Letitia sighed. She understood that her husband looking at the damage comprised more than just inspecting the aftermath and saying, ‘Tsk, tsk,’ and ‘How long has this been going on?’ – it needed to include other things to make his tenants feel that someone was doing something about it. And Roland’s wife had impressed on him that this was not just a matter of being seen, but that rolling up his sleeves and getting stuck in alongside his men was good for morale. Even better if he bought a round in the pub when the day’s work was done and became not just the boss but almost a friend. ‘We’ve got men enough here, no doubt about that,’ she added, ‘but most of the time they are working on the farms. It would be appreciated if other witches could help. ’ ‘And unfortunately, that means us,’ Magrat said smartly, with the emphasis on the us part. Letitia looked embarrassed. ‘I’m not a proper witch, you know. ’ Magrat looked at the Baroness. There was something terribly soggy about Letitia, as if you could pick her up and wring her out. But witches came in all shapes and sizes. Both Nanny Ogg and Agnes Nitt, for instance, were decidedly plump fn3 while Long Tall Short Fat Sally went up and down according to the tides – and there was no doubt that water could be powerful. ‘My dear, you are selling yourself short,’ she said. ‘And I know what it is. I believe, my dear, that you are frightened that you wouldn’t make the grade as a witch. We all went through that – girls normally do. Tiffany has told me all about you, you know. As for me, I don’t know what I would be like in a house with a screaming skeleton. Were you not the girl who gave a headless ghost a pumpkin to carry around? And handed a teddy bear to a screaming skeleton for comfort? You don’t think you are a witch, but every part of my soul says you are. I wish I’d had your opportunities when I was a girl. ’ ‘But I am the Baroness. I am a lady. I can’t be a witch. ’ Magrat made a sound like ‘hurrumpf’, and said, ‘Well, I am a queen. That doesn’t stop me being a witch when needs must. This is the time, my dear, when we stop thinking about ourselves and who we are and get down and dirty. Tiffany cannot fight the elves on her own, and this is a war – and it will keep on going unless everyone pitches in. ’ Her words flowed in and filled Letitia. ‘You are right, of course,’ the young Baroness said. ‘Naturally Roland will agree with me, as he always does. Count me in. ’ ‘Good,’ said Magrat. ‘I have got some chainmail which I think is your size. And now, how soon can you leave for Lancre? I believe we are meeting to discuss the situation. Can you ride a broomstick or do you need a lift?’ Tiffany straddled her broomstick. She had heard in the village that old Mrs Pigeon was near her time, and a wave of guilt had flooded through her. Yes, she had two steadings. Yes, she had to work out what to do with Nightshade. Yes, she had no time to rest. But she hadn’t seen the old lady for over a week, and in a week an old lady could fall through the cracks of life. Nightshade was perched behind her, her sharp eyes noting everything. Noting how the Pigeon family had only the smallest plot of land, with soil so poor it was a wonder they got a crop out of it at all, their fortunes depending mostly on the little flock of sheep they had in their field by the stream. Sid Pigeon, the youngest son, was there, looking much smaller somehow without his shiny railway uniform. To Tiffany’s surprise, he had brought a new work friend home with him. Nightshade recoiled. ‘A goblin ! In their house. Stinking. . . ’ she said with distaste. Tiffany felt like kicking her. ‘A very respectable goblin,’ she said smartly, though it was true that she could smell the goblin as soon as she went into the house, even over the layers of other smells happily living in that very dirty home. She nodded to the goblin, who was sitting with his feet up on the table, eating what looked like a chicken leg that others – possibly the cats – had had a go at before him. ‘Sid’s friend. ’ ‘Of Piston the Steam, mistresss,’ the goblin said cheerfully. ‘Works with the iron and steel, I doess—’ ‘Tiffany,’ Sid said urgently, ‘have you come to see Granny? She’s in bed upstairs. ’ Old Mrs Pigeon was indeed in her bed, and it didn’t look to Tiffany as if she was likely to be getting out of it ever again. The old lady was little more than a wrinkled set of bones, her twiglike fingers clutching at the edges of a faded patchwork quilt. Tiffany reached out and held one of her hands and. . . did what she could for the old lady, calling the pain out of the shrunken body— And all hell broke loose downstairs. ‘Sid! Them pesky fairies or whatever – they’ve only gone and fouled the stream. It’s all yeller! And there’s dead fish floatin’ in it! We’ve got to move the sheep – now!’ Mr Pigeon sounded desperate as he called to his son. As a thunder of boots left the house, Tiffany held her concentration, drew more pain from old Mrs Pigeon. And then Nightshade was at her side. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘That. . . goblin went with the humans. ’ ‘It’s called helping ,’ Tiffany said smartly, still trying to hold on to the pain she had taken from old Mrs Pigeon. ‘Remember?’ ‘But goblins and humans don’t like each other,’ Nightshade continued, puzzled. ‘I told you, Of Piston the Steam is Sid’s friend. But this isn’t about liking ,’ Tiffany said. ‘It’s about helping each other out. If the goblin camp was on fire or something, the humans would help them. ’ She looked down at Mrs Pigeon; the old lady was falling into a sleep now. ‘Look, I need to go outside for a minute,’ she said. ‘Stay with Mrs Pigeon, would you? Let me know if she wakes again. ’ Nightshade was horrified. ‘But I can’t – I’m an elf! I’ve already carried that basket. I can’t. . . help another human. ’ ‘Why not?’ said Tiffany sharply. ‘Of Piston the Steam just did. Are elves less than goblins?’ But she had no time to waste, so she headed downstairs and threw the pain out into a pile of stones laid ready for building into a wall. It made a rather unfortunate loud bang – there had been quite a lot of pain – which is probably why, when she got back upstairs, Mrs Pigeon had woken up. Woken up and asked for a cup of water.

The old granny was staring up at Nightshade, a smile on her gummy face as she reached out for the cup. ‘You’re a good girl, you are,’ she was saying weakly. ‘A good girl. . . ’ A good girl? A good elf ? Nightshade put her hands to her stomach. ‘I think it is beginning. . . ’ she said softly, looking up at Tiffany. ‘I feel a sort of warm spot. Here, in my stomach. A little glow. ’ Tiffany smiled, laid a gentling hand on Mrs Pigeon, and then took Nightshade by the arm. ‘I need your help,’ she said. ‘Elves have put this glamour on the stream and it runs past several farms. . . can you put it right?’ She paused. ‘As your friend , Nightshade, I am asking for your help. The Feegles can help with the sheep, but to remove the glamour? This is something only one of your kind can do. ’ Nightshade stood up. ‘A glamour from Peaseblossom?’ she said. ‘This will be no trouble to remove. That elf is weak. And yes, I will help you, Tiffany. You are my. . . friend. ’ The word sounded odd in her voice, but there was no doubt that she meant it. So she went down into the fields with Tiffany, past the skittish sheep in the yard – some of whom, courtesy of the ever-present Feegles, had just broken the county record for stream-to-yard time, one young lamb actually doing so on one leg – and down to the boiling water. Where she did indeed put it right. And the tiny little glow inside began to smoulder. . . The old barn behind Mr Sideways’s shed was full of miscellaneous weaponry, souvenirs from many conflicts, lovingly oiled and meticulously labelled. ‘I’ve been collecting them,’ Mr Sideways said proudly. ‘Every campaign I bin in and more besides. You should always keep your weapons handy. I mean, I don’t say anything bad about the trolls and the dwarfs, but we fought them more’n once and so I say, you always have to make sure. Somebody says something and before you know it, we’re knee-deep in dwarfs. They give you the up and under. You can’t trust ’em with the up and under. ’ Geoffrey looked around the walls of the barn in astonishment. The machinery of death was everywhere, if you looked at it properly. And there he was, this smiling old man with whom he’d just been sharing a cup of tea, eyes sparkling, ready to face the foe, especially if it wasn’t human. And he was known as Laughing Boy ? What would he have been like if he had been known as Scowling Boy ? ‘I can turn a lathe as good as anybody,’ Mr Sideways said. ‘A lathe,’ said Geoffrey. ‘You get swarf, don’t you?’ ‘Oh yes, terrible stuff if it gets in your eye. ’ He smiled. ‘And it could be useful for something. ’ There was a moment when he almost led Geoffrey back out again, but then he could not hold it in any longer – he had to show the boy what he had been working on. ‘Come, lad,’ he said. ‘Have a look at this. It was going to be a secret until it was finished, but of course I can tell you. ’ At the back of the barn there was a huge shape covered with a tarpaulin. Mr Sideways led Geoffrey over to it, reached up and gave the tarpaulin a tug, and as it fell away Geoffrey gasped. The machine looked like a great metal grasshopper, with a counterweight at one end, and an enormous leather sling at the other. As he gazed at the machine in astonishment, Geoffrey realized that he had seen something similar in the books Mr Wiggall had shown him at home. He said, ‘This looks dangerous. ’ ‘I hope so,’ said Mr Sideways. ‘I’ve always wanted one of these, ever since I saw them in action. The dwarfs had ones a bit like this which could throw a troll flat on his back. Those dwarfs know a thing or two, I must say, and I’m very big on gnome defence. ’ He coughed. ‘Got the idea to build one after I’d been watching the lads down the pub do the Stick and Bucket dance. ’ fn4 ‘So I see,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Captain Makepeace is very impressed,’ Mr Sideways added. ‘So me and the boys are going to try it out tomorrow, but nowhere anyone can see us. ’ These old gentlemen have certain qualities, Geoffrey thought. Just because they are old doesn’t mean they can’t be powerful. fn1 Quite correct. As the common joke says, most inhabitants of Slice are more than one slice short of a loaf. fn2 It appears to be a fact of life that if two or more well-born ladies should gather together, cupcakes are essential. Otherwise the ceiling might fall on them. fn3 A very kind term for Agnes, used only by her friends. fn4 A dance that should only be performed when no women are nearby. If you saw it, you would know why. CHAPTER 17 An Argument of Witches THROUGH THE UNBARRED door, Lord Lankin creeps into a crumbling old manor house. Up the creaky stairs, snuffing out the candles in the sconces as he passes, he opens an unbolted door and prowls into a nursery, where a young nursemaid rocking a cradle looks up, gazes into his eyes, and then pulls a sharp pin from her basket. . . Sitting in the Great Hall at Lancre Castle with their allies and friends, Tiffany and the witches of Lancre contemplated the construction of a battle plan. It had taken some effort to get everyone there and settled down. Geoffrey had done a marvellous job rounding up reinforcements from all over, flying hours in every direction with Tiffany’s message, to every witch she could name. Even blind Mrs Happenstance and Long Tall Short Fat Sally had turned up, with Mrs Proust from Ankh-Morpork. And there was a group of younger witches too: Annagramma Hawkin, Petulia Gristle, Dimity Hubbub, Harrieta Bilk and others. Under Queen Magrat’s watchful eye, Letitia ticked them off Tiffany’s list as they arrived. Having a queen backing you up was a good thing, Tiffany thought, as Mrs Earwig came in and started bossing everyone around – Magrat swiftly put a stop to that , for even Mrs Earwig found that she couldn’t argue with royalty. But dealing with witches all together was like carrying a tray full of marbles. Witches were very good at rubbing one another up the wrong way, and little feuds turned up and went away and disappeared and started again. It was silly and everybody knew it, but they couldn’t help themselves. Geoffrey came into his own on occasions like this. Whenever bickering broke out, he was there with the perfect word or a sympathetic smile. Seeing his calm-weaving doing its subtle work was a joy, Tiffany thought. You could almost see the calm coming out of his ears. ‘Ladies,’ Tiffany said, calling the meeting to order. ‘Here’s the problem. The elves are back again, this time in force. And if we don’t stop them soon, things will get very bad indeed. I know some of you have encountered elves before’ – she looked at Nanny Ogg and Magrat – ‘but many of you have not. They are a formidable foe. ’ Nightshade was standing at the side of the hall, almost too demure in her dairymaid’s dress. She didn’t seem very formidable, but a few of the older witches were eyeing her as though they had just encountered a bad smell. Mrs Earwig tutted and looked as though she was about to say something, but Petulia got there first. ‘Tiff, are you sure that it’s wise to have an elf here listening to this?’ she asked. ‘Don’t you worry, my girl,’ Nanny Ogg said. ‘If our little friend tries anything, there will be fireworks and no mistake. Certainly no more elf!’ ‘The last time this happened, didn’t the King of the Elves intervene?’ Annagramma Hawkin asked, looking at Nanny Ogg. ‘He did indeed, but he almost didn’t. Tiffany’s been to see him already, and it seems Old Horny ain’t interested,’ Nanny answered. ‘Can’t rely on him in any case. ’ ‘Time moves differently in his realm,’ Tiffany explained. ‘Even if he did decide to do something, it might be now, or next month or next year. ’ ‘What about the wizards?’ asked another witch. ‘Why aren’t they here?’ Nanny snorted. ‘Ha! That lot. By the time they got a spell ready, the elves would be over the Ramtops and far away. ’ She adjusted her position and sniffed. ‘No, this is witches ’ business. Them wizards have all got their bums on chairs and their noses stuck in books.

’ She said this last word with a sideways glance at Mrs Earwig who was, of course, known for her love of writing. fn1 Magrat cut in quickly. ‘We also have all the support of Lancre that Verence and I can muster. ’ ‘Well, that’s my Shawn,’ said Nanny with satisfaction. Shawn Ogg was the army of Lancre, as well as its bottle-washer, butler, gardener, trumpeter and – a role Shawn would have liked to lose – the man who checked the garderobes and removed all the night waste. ‘And I reckons our Jason can provide us with a few horseshoes. Being as he’s the blacksmith,’ Nanny added for those who might not know. Geoffrey coughed. ‘I’ve been working on a few ideas with some of the older gentlemen,’ he said softly. ‘We have. . . something I think might be useful. ’ ‘And there’s Hodgesaargh,’ said Magrat. Hodgesaargh – the royal falconer – was a surprising asset, since elven glamour didn’t seem to work on him, probably because he spent so much time with his beloved birds that a part of his brain was a falcon by now, and hence unprepared to share space with any other predator. It was generally believed that this was also what stopped the birds from pecking out his eyeballs. Mrs Earwig laughed confidently. ‘So what is the problem, may I ask? There are plenty of us here. Surely more than enough for a few elves. ’ She looked scornfully at Nightshade. Nanny Ogg exploded. ‘No, there’s not enough of us! How many witches have we here?’ She looked around the room. ‘Ten, twelve mebbe – more if you includes Geoffrey and Letitia, and the young girls still training – but only half of us bein’ senior witches what has much real experience. The elves are sneaky. They’ll have the glamour on you afore you knows it. They come quietly – like a silent but deadly fart – and they get you before you can pinch your nose. Even Esme Weatherwax could barely withstand the power. She fought hard, and you all remember what she was like. They didn’t get past her – but it was a close thing. Ladies, these ’ere elves are horrible. We’re right to be fearful. They do. . . things to you. Get at you. ’ ‘It happened to me too,’ said Magrat. ‘The glamour makes you feel small and worthless. Those of us who have faced it before can’t warn the rest of you enough. ’ ‘I fear you are exaggerating. There’s nothing glamorous about that ,’ Mrs Earwig said scornfully, pointing at Nightshade. ‘Well, you’ve certainly never met no fairy. If’n you had, you would have scars ,’ Nanny spat. She had turned an interesting colour and Tiffany intervened quickly before sparks really began to fly. ‘Ladies, ladies, I think it would be useful to have a little demonstration of the power of an elf. Nightshade, would you be prepared to give us a taste of your glamour?’ There was a collective intake of breath as the assembled witches realized what Tiffany was suggesting. ‘Be careful, Nightshade. Very careful. Those of us who have met the glamour before will keep an eye on you. I sincerely hope that we won’t have a problem. ’ And Nightshade smiled – not a particularly pleasant smile, Tiffany noticed. ‘Ladies,’ said Magrat to the others, trying to prepare them. ‘To be a witch is to be full of yourself – and in charge of yourself as well. It would be a good idea to watch one another when the glamour starts to take hold. ’ ‘Tish and pish!’ said Mrs Earwig. ‘I am my own woman, and always will be. I am a witch, whatever you might think, and I don’t deal in fairy tales. ’ In a syrupy voice, Nanny Ogg said, ‘You just write them, Mrs Earwig. ’ ‘But not as reality,’ said Mrs Earwig. ‘That’s allowed. ’ Nanny Ogg looked at her face and thought: We will see. ‘Ladies,’ asked Tiffany, ‘are you all ready?’ There were some nods and yeses, so she said, ‘Nightshade, please show us your glamour. ’ And she grasped the shepherd’s crown in her pocket – this was a moment when she knew she would need to keep a strong hold on her sense of her self. Yan tan tethera , she chanted softly to herself. Yan tan tethera. Nightshade began slowly, her foxy little dairymaid’s face filling with a shining light, with beauty, with style , and then she was suddenly the most wonderful thing in the hall. Fantastic. Marvellous. Enchanting. Terrific. The air was thick with glamour and Tiffany could almost hear the witches fighting it. The inexperienced ones – Annagramma, Petulia and Letitia, Dimity and Harrieta – suddenly seemed flaccid, their faces like dolls. Petulia – like many of the other witches – felt a beguiling feeling that the world was all hers, all of it, with everything that was in it. And then, her dream – as did theirs – unravelled. Who did she think she was? No one liked her, no one wanted her. She wasn’t worthy of anything. No one wanted her. Everyone knew she didn’t have any skills. It would be so much better if she was dead. Maybe it would be better if she simply let the pigs stamp her down into the mire, and even that wouldn’t be bad enough. She screamed. Tiffany moved towards Nightshade, and almost like a bubble bursting, the elf let go, and her glamour was all gone. But everyone in the hall looked shaken. Except, Tiffany noticed, Mrs Earwig. ‘So, what happened?’ the older witch snapped bossily. ‘What are you all doing?’ ‘Mrs Earwig, did you not feel as though you were small, nasty and a waste of space? Totally without redemption?’ Letice Earwig’s face held nothing but puzzlement. Nightshade looked at her, and back to Tiffany. ‘It was like hitting a rock,’ she said. ‘This one has something interesting. . . something missing. ’ She turned to stare again at Mrs Earwig. ‘Are you sure you are not an elf?’ she queried. ‘How dare you! I am just Letice Earwig. No one can stop me being me!’ ‘Perish the thought,’ said Tiffany. ‘But everyone else was affected. And that, ladies, was just one elf. Imagine what it will be like when we are facing a horde of them. ’ ‘It was like seeing my father,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I heard a voice telling me that I was no good and I never would be. A mouse, a maggot, no one worth crying for. He was never satisfied about anything. ’ His words sang into the room, and the witches’ faces showed that each knew exactly what he was talking about. With the demonstration finished and Nightshade back in her unassuming dairymaid guise, the bickering was almost over. ‘Well, fellow witches, there we have it,’ Tiffany said. ‘We know who we are after and what we have to do, which is to keep the elves away from this world. It’s very unlikely that we could kill them all. ’ She hesitated. ‘What we have to do is make them see that dealing with us will not be easy, and it might be a very good idea to go back to where they came from. ’ ‘So,’ Queen Magrat said, ‘how long do we have to get ready?’ Tiffany sighed. ‘We don’t know,’ she said. ‘But they will come soon, I feel. ’ She looked at Nightshade, who moved now into the centre of the room. ‘The when ,’ said the elf, ‘will surely be at the full moon. A time of. . . endings. ’ ‘ Tonight , then. . . ’ Magrat whispered. ‘And if I know Peaseblossom,’ continued the elf, ‘the where will be on every front where the barriers may be weak. ’ ‘What do you think, Tiff?’ said Nanny Ogg. ‘They’ve been coming into the Chalk already, right? And they’ve been up here in Lancre – through the Dancers. ’ Nightshade nodded. ‘They will come through both those gates,’ she said. ‘And afterwards fan out. ’ She shivered. Tiffany was taking charge now. ‘Well, we’re going to need to face them on two fronts then. Here in Lancre, and over in the Chalk. ’ She looked around the room. ‘We’ll have to split our forces. ’ ‘Well,’ said Nanny Ogg, ‘you can count on me. I’ve always been a fighter. You has to be a fighter to be a witch. We don’t have to worry – they does. If you can get an elf down and kick it about a bit, it’s not goin’ to be so glamorous as it was. Take it from me, even elves has soft parts which don’t like no boot in ’em. ’ Tiffany glanced at Nanny’s boots. They looked as though they had been built by a blacksmith, and in Nanny’s case they probably had been.

A kick from one of those and it would be ‘So long, elf!’ It might not kill them, but you could certainly say that all the glamour would have been kicked out. ‘They know where the stone circles are,’ she said, ‘but by Thunder and Lightning they had better keep away. After all, we know where the stones are as well, and we humans are clever, and we can sometimes be very nasty to boot. When we need to, I suspect. ’ She turned to Nightshade, who had been watching everyone carefully. ‘What do you make of it, Nightshade?’ The elf smiled and said, ‘You humans are a strange people. Sometimes soft and stupid, but also surprisingly dangerous. There are very few of you, and very many of the elves ranged against you. Yet I believe that traitor Peaseblossom has no idea what he will be facing. And I’m glad of that. ’ Tiffany nodded. Magrat, Nanny Ogg, the surprisingly strong Mrs Earwig – there was more to Letice Earwig, she realized, than the occult jewellery and fancy outfits suggested – the other witches of Lancre, Mrs Proust, Geoffrey and Mephistopheles. It would have to do. ‘I think Lancre will be well served by you all,’ she said, looking around. ‘But I must go back to the Chalk. It’s my land. ’ ‘Who will you have to help you in the Chalk, may I ask?’ said Mrs Earwig. ‘Well,’ said Tiffany, ‘there’s Miss Tick – a formidable lady, as I am sure you will all agree, who sends her apologies for her absence today. ’ Or would, she thought to herself, if I could have found her again. ‘Also Letitia. ’ She looked at the young Baroness, who was trying to look brave. ‘And there’s the land itself, of course. But remember, I have some other admirable allies. We are not on our own. ’ She had been keeping an eye on the pile of broomsticks by the door, and even though they hadn’t been invited she could see the face of Rob Anybody, and by the look of it a significant number of his clan. She laughed; they must have come up with Magrat and Letitia, she thought. ‘Ladies,’ she announced, ‘please allow me to introduce. . . the Nac Mac Feegles!’ There was a susurration amongst the witches as the room started to fill with a sea of blue skin and tartan – not all the witches had met the Feegles before. Tiffany heard Nanny Ogg whisper not quite quietly enough to Queen Magrat, ‘Put anythin’ drinkable in the cellar. ’ ‘Ach, ye are a cruel hag, so ye are, or my name isnae Rob Anybody,’ Rob moaned. Magrat laughed. ‘Rob Anybody, you are a war all by yourself, man! Welcome to the palace but please don’t drink everything. At least, not until we have won the war. ’ ‘Now ye are talking, lassie – I mean, your queenship. Where there’s a war there’s a Nac Mac Feegle. ’ There was a barrage of cries of ‘Crivens’ from the clan and Rob Anybody shouted, ‘Aye, get ’em doon, and the kickin’ starts. ’ There was another cheer then and Big Yan jumped up and shouted, ‘Ye will need to tak’ note, ye weans. We dinnae say yes tae Mister Finesse, but we jes’ kick ’em. ’ Hamish added, ‘Whan Morag swoops doon on top o’ ’em, her beak ’n’ talons’ll tak’ their breath awa’. And she’s a heavy girl. ’ ‘Be happy that they are on our side,’ Tiffany said. She looked reprovingly at Mrs Earwig, who had a snooty look on her face. ‘It’s true that they are rough diamonds, but no better warriors can be found anywhere on the Disc. ’ And she hoped that Mrs Earwig didn’t hear the mumbling: Daft Wullie. ‘What’s this? Did we stole any diamonds?’ ‘It’s a manner of speaking, ye daftie. ’ Rob Anybody. ‘But we got no manners. We treasure the fact, ye ken. ’ Wullie, again. ‘It’s an idiom. ’ ‘Who’re you calling an idiom?’ Tiffany laughed to herself. It appeared that the kelda had been seeing to the clan’s range of expressions. Rob waved his claymore in the air, making one or two witches retreat a step or two, and then he leaped up onto a table and glared down the hall. ‘Weel, I see the Lady Nightshade is with us the noo,’ he said. ‘Ach, the big wee hag and the kelda seem tae think that we shouldnae do anything aboot this elf – we are tae leave her alone. Although,’ he continued, looking at Nightshade, ‘we’ll be watching her carefully, verra carefully indeed. Oor kelda is soft, oor kelda, as soft as stone , ye ken – she is nae one to let a body break their troth and get away wi’ it!’ ‘Dear sir, Mister Feegle,’ said Mrs Earwig. ‘This is a council of war, so we should be discussing strategies and tactics. ’ ‘Ah weel, ye can if ye wish, but we are Feegles and we dinnae mess about wi’ things like that. It’s all aboot usin’ yon claymore to best offence. And if ye dinnae get that right, your last resort is to nut ’em. ’ Tiffany took in Mrs Earwig’s face and said cheerfully, ‘Could you do that, Mrs Earwig?’ She was given a Look, and Mrs Earwig said, ‘I will nut as I see fit. ’ And to Tiffany’s surprise, the other witches applauded, and for once Mrs Earwig was wreathed in smiles. ‘I tell ye, I would nae cross yon carlin,’ said Rob Anybody. ‘Nae me,’ said Big Yan. ‘She’s as sharp as a she-wolf. ’ ‘So wheer’s yon battle, then, hag o’ the hills?’ Rob demanded. There was another roar from the assembled Feegles, and a forest of little swords and clubs were thrust into the air. ‘Nac Mac Feegle, wha hae!’ ‘A guid kickin’ for the wee scunners!’ ‘Nae king! Nae quin! We willnae be fooled again!’ Tiffany smiled. ‘If Nightshade is right, the elves will ride through this coming night – when the full moon shines in the skies. Ladies – and Geoffrey,’ she addressed the assembled witches. ‘Go and get some rest. I must fly back to my steading now, but goodnight and good luck. ’ ‘Let the runes of fortune guide and protect us all,’ Mrs Earwig added portentously, always determined to get the last word in. Tiffany loved the little room she’d had since she was a child. Her parents hadn’t changed anything, and unless it was raining or blowing a gale, she slept with the window open. Now, weary from the broomstick ride back, tense with the expectation of what the night might bring but hoping to get a few hours’ rest, she savoured the atmosphere of the little room, finding strength from its familiarity. A strength that came from feeling that she was exactly where she should be. An Aching. ‘I get up Aching, and I go to bed Aching,’ she whispered to herself, smiling. One of her father’s jokes, and she had rolled her eyes when hearing it again and again as a child, but now its warmth curled over her body. And there was the china shepherdess on the shelf. Granny Aching. And next to it she had placed the shepherd’s crown. Aching to Aching, down the generations. Land under wave, she mused. That was what the name Tiffany meant in the speech of the Feegles. Tir-far-thóinn, ‘Tiffan’, the kelda would call her. The sound of her name was magic, real magic from the beginning of time. It was a soft night. She told herself that she really ought to get some sleep – she’d be no good without some rest – but she lay there, the cat You snuggled up against her warmth, listening to the owls. Hootings were coming from everywhere, as if they were warning her. Outside her window, the moon was rising, a gloriously full silver orb to light the skies, to lead the elves in. . . Tiffany’s eyes closed. And a part of her, the soul of her, was in a chalk pit, the shepherd’s crown in her hand, its five ridges catching the light of the full moon, and it was glowing, like an aquarium out of time. Now she could hear the roar of the ancient sea beneath her, its voice trapped in the millions of tiny shells that made up the Chalk. And she was swimming. . . Great strange fish were coming towards her, big and heavy-looking with teeth. At that point, Dr Bustle fn2 floated into her mind and took his cue. ‘ Dunkleosteus ,’ he said as a creature the size of a house floated by. ‘ Megalodon ’ was huge and carnivorous – more teeth than Tiffany had ever seen in one go. Then there were sea scorpions – armour-plated, clawed horrors. But none of them paid any attention to her. It was as if she had a right to be there. And then there was a smaller creature, an explosion of blue spines that did notice Tiffany.

‘ Echinoid ,’ whispered Sensibility Bustle. ‘That is correct,’ said the creature. ‘And I am the shepherd’s crown. Deep in my heart is the flint. And I have many uses. Some call me the sea urchin, others the thunderstone, but here, now, in this place, call me the shepherd’s crown. I seek a true shepherd. Where can a true shepherd be found?’ ‘We shall see,’ Tiffany heard herself saying. ‘I am Tiffany Aching and my father is a king among shepherds. ’ ‘We know him. He is a good shepherd, but not the best. You must find the king of shepherds. ’ ‘Well,’ said Tiffany, ‘I’m just a witch, but I will help you if I can. I work hard, mostly for other people. ’ ‘Yes,’ said the echinoid. ‘We know. ’ I’m talking to a creature from under the sea, thought Tiffany. Is that right? First Thoughts, not Second Thoughts, her mind reminded her. ‘It is strange,’ said the voice of Dr Bustle in her head. ‘But not so strange as falling down a rabbit hole with a pack of cards. ’ Let me think about it, her Second and Third Thoughts said. If talking creatures from the sea turned up everywhere, we’d all know about it, so this must be something just for me. The voice came from nowhere, as though it was part of that ocean from Time: ‘ Tiffany Aching is the first among shepherds, for she puts others before herself. . . ’ And the shepherd’s crown was warm in her hand, a golden light glowing from within its depths. An heirloom handed down from generation to generation of Achings – down to Granny Aching, on to Joe Aching, and now to Tiffany herself. . . Then the sea had gone and she was back in the pit, but the magic was still there, for slowly, oh so slowly, she could see bones pulling themselves free of the chalk, rising to draw together. . . to make two figures. . . Thunder and Lightning! Granny Aching’s sheepdogs. The best dogs any shepherd could ever have. Dogs for the first among shepherds. Now they were at her feet, their ears pricked, and Tiffany felt as if she could almost reach out to touch them. Almost. But not quite. For if she should touch them, be part of them, would she too be drawn into the chalk, to be bones like them. . . ? ‘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. As the door opened, Magrat thought she heard a subtle little sound of a call to arms. Queen Ynci’s armour had a life of its own and it always shone, even in the dark. Verence helped her buckle on the mail armour – which she secretly thought of as fe -mail – then she slipped her feet into the heavy-soled spiked sandals, and topped it all off with the winged helmet. The last piece to go on was the leather baldric. Verence wanted to embrace her, but he thought, I won’t. There were too many spikes, in any case. But he loved his wife to distraction, so he tried again to volunteer himself to be somewhere in the coming fray. ‘Magrat, my love,’ he murmured, ‘it seems so shaming if the King can’t fight. ’ ‘You are a very good king, Verence,’ his wife said firmly, ‘but this is witches’ work. And someone has to look after the people and our children. ’ The Queen – Magrat, as was – staggered under the weight of the armour, and under her breath she whispered a little magic. ‘Queen Ynci, Queen of Queens, make your armour light. ’ And suddenly she felt strong, stronger than she had ever been before. She picked up a crossbow in one hand, her broomstick in the other, and almost flew down the stairs to the Great Hall where the other witches, who were for the most part en déshabille, stared at her with wild surmise.

Wild surmises take on many shapes and every witch, some still in their underwear, stared at the Queen and the surmise each gave her hung there in the rafters. In the voice of Queen Ynci, Magrat shouted, ‘Up, girls, and at ’em. It’s started, ladies, so get your heavy-duty knickers on and your sticks ready!’ She glared at the only witch to be fully dressed, spick and span in three minutes, to the surprise of all. ‘That means you too, Mrs Earwig. ’ There was a little commotion at the back of the hall, then a sudden crash and a group of witches ground to a halt. ‘What’s happening?’ Magrat cried, still in the voice of Queen Ynci. ‘It’s only Long Tall Short Fat Sally: she’s got two feet down one knicker!’ said Mrs Proust. Surrounded by witches, Long Tall Short Fat Sally – small and squat right then, like a low-lying thunderstorm – was swiftly put back on her feet. Mrs Earwig looked rather smug and said, ‘I’ve been looking at my charts. The omens are good. ’ ‘Well, omens are ten a penny,’ said Mrs Proust. ‘I’ve got lots of them. After all, we are all witches. ’ And the ghost of Queen Ynci filled Magrat, who said, ‘Let us fly. ’ In Mr Sideways’s old barn, Mephistopheles laid a hoof gently on Geoffrey’s sleeping form. Geoffrey jumped out of the straw and discovered that the old boys who had readied themselves for the coming battle by bivouacking in the barn with him were already up and about, creaking a bit, and making their toilet in a bucket. Geoffrey looked at the old men. They had spent most of the evening carousing and telling stories of the days when they were all young and handsome and healthy and didn’t have to pass water far too often. They had managed to make their wives give them a ticket of leave, and said wives had been given to believe that their husbands were just in the barn for a few drinks and reminiscences. The wives, as wives do, had festooned their menfolk with big scarves, mittens on strings and woolly hats with, alas, pompoms on the top. Captain Makepeace – the old boys’ acknowledged military leader – said, ‘It’s time to go and get out Laughing Boy’s confounded contraption. ’ Geoffrey looked at the captain’s warriors and sighed internally. Could they do it? They were old men. And then he thought, Yes, they are old men. They have been old men for a long time, which means they have learned many things. Like lying, and being crafty and, most importantly, dissembling. ‘We shall fight them on the mountains. We shall fight them on the rocks. We shall fight them over the hills and down in the valleys. fn1 We shall never surrender!’ Captain Makepeace roared, and there was an answering cheer. ‘They will not like it up and over ’em!’ Smack Tremble called out, waving what looked like a rusty bayonet in the air and, worryingly, living up to his name. ‘They will not like it, oh no they won’t!’ Mephistopheles grunted as Geoffrey hitched him to his little cart, which the old boys had filled with mysterious bags before drinking the night away, and the two of them followed the old men out of the barn. Captain Makepeace didn’t need to tell his men to be stealthy. They already were. It was running fast that would be a problem. And stealthily they made their way into the wood and further on to where they had hidden Mr Sideways’s contraption, camouflaging it with branches. Geoffrey watched them pull Mr Sideways’s project out into the clearing. It stood there looking ominous. Surrounded by the bushes. Waiting its moment. Like a huge insect. One with a nasty sting. . . Up by the circle of stones called the Dancers, Lord Lankin was exulting. His elves were dancing around the stones, flitting in and out and metaphorically tweaking the noses of the Piper, the Drummer, the Leaper – the best-known stones. The power of the gate was weak, and the glamour of the elves was. . . fearsome. ‘They are not even here, waiting for us!’ Lord Lankin gloated. ‘Stupid humans. If we go down through those woods, we could be out into the centre of Lancre in one great charge. And the moon is full and on our side. ’ And in the silver moonlight, the elves, some on horseback, bells jingling and harness tinkling, made their way down the hill towards the woods. But as they neared the edge of the trees, Lankin saw a young human boy step out onto the path with an animal by his side. It was a goat. ‘Who are you, boy?’ he demanded. ‘Move aside. I am a prince of the elves and you are in my way. Move lest I show you my displeasure. ’ ‘Well,’ said Geoffrey, ‘I don’t see why I should. My advice to you is to turn round, sir, and go the other way or else it will be all the worse for you. ’ Lord Lankin laughed out loud. ‘We will take you away, boy, and the things we will use on you when we get you back home will be incredibly nasty. Your torment, for naysaying a prince of the elves. ’ ‘But why, sir? I mean no harm to you. I have no weapons. Can we be calm about this? It would appear that I have made you unhappy, and for this I am sorry. ’ Geoffrey paused – he was trying to weave a peace between them, but it was like trying to get a rock to agree with a hard place. ‘Surely both of us are civilized people,’ he finished. Lord Lankin screeched, ‘Now, young man, you have trodden on the tail of the snake. ’ Geoffrey calmly said, ‘I believe this is not the case. I know you, mister. I know what kind of thing you are. You are a bully. I know about bullies, oh yes I do! I have known them all my life. And believe me, you aren’t the worst. ’ ‘You are nothing, boy. We’ll kill you anyway. And why a goat, may I ask? They are stupid creatures. ’ Geoffrey found his calmness floating away. He was worthless. A maggot. A ne’er-do-well. He felt powerless, a baby again. . . And as the elf spoke, in Geoffrey’s mind an echo came. Even if I let you live, you will amount to nothing. This time it was the voice of his father, and he stood there, frozen. The elf prince said silkily, ‘Are you crying, you little baby?’ ‘No,’ said Geoffrey, ‘but you might be. ’ For now his eyes had caught the flash of red fox fur swinging on its leather thong across the lord’s chest, and he felt a rage beginning to build. ‘We are not here for your. . . sport ,’ he stated, throwing the glamour from his mind with a huge effort of will. He clicked his teeth and Mephistopheles was on the elf. It was a ballet with speed. The Mince of Darkness pirouetted to dangerous effect. He used his teeth first, then kicked hard with his legs, and ended by using his horns. Lord Lankin was spinning, kicked and tossed into the air from all directions, and the other elves drew back to keep out of the range of the maelstrom. And Geoffrey said to the battered prince, ‘You are just a trickster. And I have found your trick. ’ He shouted, ‘He’s down, gentlemen. Time to put him out. ’ The branches parted and there was a twang as Mr Sideways yelled, ‘Keep your hats on, boys, cover your eyes,’ and the contraption sang, swinging up into the air, filling it with a twinkle of swarf and terrible death that came from nowhere to shower over the elves. Smack Tremble cheered. ‘They don’t like it up and over ’em! Oh no, they don’t!’ ‘Swarf,’ said Nanny Ogg approvingly, from one side of the woods, where she and some of the other witches were waiting – prepared for what Captain Makepeace had called a pincer movement, with Mrs Earwig and more witches on the other side. ‘Pieces of iron,’ Nanny told the witches with her. ‘Very small. Very clever. Throw it down on elves, and they’re in a world of hurt. Tiny bits of iron ev’rywhere. And, I stress, ev’rywhere. ’ The Lancre Stick and Bucket machine sang again. And again. And each twang was followed by the war cries of ancient battles, rivalling those of the Feegles. On this day of days, the old boys were younger than they thought. And the elves were, indeed, down and out, screaming from the pain of the terrible metal that stripped their glamour away from them, leaving them writhing.

Many dragged themselves away back up the hill towards the Dancers, while any who had escaped the rain of swarf now found themselves sandwiched by the witches. From one side, Magrat piled in to make life unlivable for those remaining, her armour shielding her from their glamour while her crossbow shot deadly arrows at them, and fire flew from her fingertips, forcing those who had ridden into battle on yarrow stalks to fall from the sky as flame destroyed the stems. From the other side, the elves were assaulted by Mrs Earwig. And they really didn’t know how to deal with her. She was shouting at them like some horrible headmistress – and they couldn’t get through to her; she was impervious to their glamour. She also had an umbrella which she had opened, and it was amazing how much of a problem it was for the elves, its metal spokes poking at them, hitting tender spots. ‘This lady is not for turning,’ Mrs Earwig boomed. She rose among them like a whirlwind, and as they were floored, Long Tall Short Fat Sally became very fat and heavy and sat on them, bouncing up and down. While Mrs Proust hurled her novelties – novelties that now worked as advertised – over the elves, trapping them in curls of spells that seized their glamour and took it for their own. The younger witches were in and out of the mêlée, diving from the skies on their broomsticks, throwing spells at every elf they saw: fire burning them where they stood, wind blowing dust into the horses’ faces, madness into their minds, such that the horses reared, throwing their elvish riders to the ground. Then there was the crunching as Nanny Ogg came to the fore with her big, big boots. The ones with nails everywhere. Petulia was face to face with an elf – and a different kind of battle was going on, as the elf threw its glamour towards her, sparkling shards of glamour shining in the air between them, and Petulia fought back with her soft voice and strong will, her words hypnotic, irresistible, boring the elf as she bored her beloved pigs, lulling it until it dropped dramatically at her feet. ‘Hah! Easier than pigs!’ was Petulia’s response. ‘Less intelligent. ’ And she turned to the next opponent. . . And in a lull, there was Hodgesaargh, with his favourite gyrfalcon on his wrist – the Lady Elizabeth, a descendant of the famous Lady Jane. He slipped the hood off, and the bird joyfully hurled herself into the fray, hitting the nearest elf between the eyes with her sharp talons. Then her beak got to work. . . When it came to it, the battle for Lancre was over quite swiftly. Queen Magrat had all the surviving elves brought before her. ‘Even the goblins are smarter than you – they work with us these days,’ she told them, standing tall and strong in her spiked armour, the wings on her helmet silvered in the moonlight. ‘We have had enough of this. You could have had it all. Now, go away to your forlorn spaces. Come back as good neighbours – or not at all. ’ The elves cringed. But Lord Lankin, his warrior garb now only rags and his body bloodied by the terrible swarf, hissed in defiance at them as he crawled away. ‘You may have won this battle,’ he snarled, ‘but not the war. For our Lord Peaseblossom will yet make this world bow down to us. ’ And then they were gone. Nanny Ogg said seriously, ‘It seems to me, girls, that it goes like this. We fight the elves at every turn, and they is always comin’ back. Perhaps it might be a good thing? To keep us on our toes, to stop us from gettin’ lazy. To put us on the anvil, so that we remembers how to fight. And at the end of time, living is about fightin’ against everything. ’ She laughed, however, when she heard the old gentlemen coming up the hill, singing, ‘There was a young lady from Quirm, whose thighs were exceedingly firm. . . ’ And the rest of the song helpfully disappeared as the captain remembered just in time how that verse ended. Captain Makepeace leaned over to Nanny Ogg and said, ‘They came through the Dancers, right? Let’s put a ring of swarf all around the stones. That would be the end of their fun. They would be locked out for ever. ’ ‘Well, I reckons it would be a good start,’ said Nanny. But Lord Lankin had one thing right. The elves might have lost the battle in Lancre, but the war was not yet over. For, many miles rimwards, Lord Peaseblossom had indeed ridden through the stone circle on the Chalk, with a band of elite warriors at his back. The Feegle mound was one big scuttle as the Nac Mac Feegles turned out of every nook and cranny to fight. Everywhere was heat and noise. You could call it something like an overgrown termite mound – not in front of the Feegles, unless you liked picking your teeth up from the ground – but there was the same bustling. It could even be said that the vanguard was steaming along, but these being Feegles, there were squabbles in the ranks which, as everyone knew, was just the way of the clan. When Tiffany arrived at the mound with Nightshade, the throng spread out in the direction of the stones. The gateway had fallen to the elves. Who were now heading towards them, a glorious band of lords and ladies, resplendent in the moonlight. The air was thick with their glamour. Miss Tick was waiting. A Miss Tick with a board propped up on a few sticks she had handily knotted together to create a trestle. And on the board was written PLN. With a teacher’s determination not to let anything interrupt her in the midst of any kind of lesson, her insistent voice was demanding the younger Feegles’ attention as she tied a strange net, a tangle of intricate, carefully woven knots and loops, to her broomstick. ‘Remember, I want you to keep it in one piece ,’ she was saying sternly. Then, within minutes, it was a mêlée. In fact, a mêlée of mêlées. There was a sting in the air and Tiffany recognized the surge of static electricity. How could the elves be so stupid, she thought, as to attack in the midst of a storm? Did they not remember how she had used thunder and lightning to defeat them before? The sky was crackling. The hairs on her head tingled. She could see signs of a coming downpour happening everywhere, could recognize the build-up to an enormous storm. As Awf’ly Wee Billy Bigchin’s mousepipes screeched out a battle hymn, pitched perfectly to assault the elven ears, there was a distant scream from a train at Twoshirts. A roar of iron and steel, a bellow that shouted: This is no world for elves! Feegles and elves were fighting now, with no quarter given on either side. Tiffany could see that the Feegles were dealing with things in their own special way – which included getting into the elves’ clothing and fighting them from within. If there was something that an elf really hated, it was to have their clothing torn, and a black eye didn’t do much for the image either. You can’t be suave with a black eye, Tiffany thought. She suddenly burst out laughing. It had been a long time since she had set eyes on Horace the Cheese, fn2 but now she saw him rolling heavily over every fallen elf, and when they were flattened the younger Feegles got to work as well, mostly with their heavy boots, but also with their double-the-fun clubs that curled in the air, clonking elves on the head and then coming joyfully back for another go. And yes, there was Maggie in their midst – a Feegle daughter fighting alongside her brothers! And indeed fighting even more furiously than her brothers. Tiffany thought, She’s like a small Ynci. The Feegle maid had been waiting for something like this to prove herself, so woe betide any elf who got in her way. It was one small step for a Feegle lassie – but a giant step for all Feegle womenfolk! Miss Tick was flying overhead now, the strange rope-net hanging beneath her broomstick filled with young Feegles. As she pulled at one knot after another, the Wee Free Men were tumbling out to fall smack on the heads of the elves below. Crash! Whack! Crump! Followed by Aargh! from the elves.

And the witch had small bottles with her too – concoctions mixed in her caravan that she was now gleefully emptying over the heads of the elves’ horses as she swooped above them. There was a moment’s pause as each horse absorbed the mixture, then its eyes crossed, followed rapidly by its hooves, and it toppled to the ground, losing its footing, hurling its rider onto the earth to be quickly covered by Feegles. Letitia had arrived now, summoned by Hamish, and was tumbling from her horse, determination in her face, borrowed chainmail over her dress. She somehow flowed through the elves – there was a certain magic to it as if she were some goddess of water, streaming everywhere: no thought to it, but no stopping it either. Suddenly the elvish horses still standing were bogged down in a quagmire, and the Feegles were there on hand to keep them in the mire. Nevertheless, it looked as if the Feegles, Miss Tick and Letitia were really not getting the better of the elves. Despite the Wee Free Men’s pouring into elvish underwear and tearing it up, Tiffany realized that the Nac Mac Feegles were actually in danger of losing. Nightshade pointed out Peaseblossom sitting on a black charger, and Tiffany flew down to confront the leader of the elves. His minions scattered as she arrived – they had seen the expression on Tiffany’s face. Peaseblossom was laughing. ‘Ah, the little country girl. How pleased I am to see you!’ She felt the tug of his glamour but rage was a useful tool, and she hated that grinning face. It was so self-centred. It loved itself beyond any other thing. ‘Peaseblossom is a very stupid name for an elf of your size,’ she said rather childishly. And then, suddenly, the elf had sprung from his horse to stand before her, a sabre in his hands, and his laughter was gone, only evil in his eyes. A voice said, ‘Don’t touch her, Peaseblossom. ’ And Nightshade was stepping forward, her glamour fully restored and shining gloriously, her hair streaked silver with the moonlight, her new wings resplendent. She held herself like a queen again, her gaze slowly moving over the warriors behind her treacherous lord, and such was the power of her presence that even the Feegles paused in the frozen silence. ‘Why do you follow this. . . perfidious elf?’ the Queen demanded of the elves. ‘ I am your rightful queen, and I say that you do not have to do this. There are. . . other ways. ’ She spun on the spot, her velvet robes spiralling around her slim body. ‘I have learned this. And this girl’ – she pointed at Tiffany – ‘is my friend. ’ Tiffany couldn’t stop what happened next. ‘Friend?’ Peaseblossom spat. ‘There are no friends for elves. ’ He raised his arm and his sabre tore through Nightshade with a terrible swishing sound. The elf Queen fell, crumpling to the ground at Tiffany’s feet, where she writhed for a moment that seemed to last a lifetime, myriad faces and shapes appearing and disappearing, flickering in and out of substance, before finally lying still, a forlorn heap. Tiffany reeled back in shock. Peaseblossom had killed the Queen of the Fairies! Worse, he had killed her friend. Peaseblossom, revelling, turned to Tiffany, his face sharp and merciless. ‘You have no friend now!’ Suddenly the air was full of ice. ‘You killed one of your own to get to me, you cursed elf,’ Tiffany said, her voice cold, red-hot anger boiling inside her. ‘She wanted to explore a new way, an alliance of humans and elves, and now you have killed her. ’ ‘You stupid little girl!’ Peaseblossom taunted. ‘You think you can stand against me? What a fool you are! We elves knew well of the witch who once walked the edges of this world. . . but you, you are just a child , filled with pride because you were once lucky against a failing queen’ – he glanced contemptuously down at the little heap that had once been the Queen of Fairyland – ‘and now I will see you dead, alongside your friend. ’ He spat out the last word, and his glamour snaked towards her, creeping into her head, into her thoughts. Tiffany recoiled, a memory of Nanny Ogg’s voice suddenly saying to her: Granny Weatherwax said to me as you is the one who’s to deal with the future. An’ bein’ young means you’ve got a lot of future. Well, it looked like Granny Weatherwax might have been wrong. She didn’t have much future to come. She had failed everyone. She had tried to be the witch for two steadings. And let everyone down. . . She had gone to see the King of the Elves. He had turned her away. . . She had made a friend of Nightshade. Now the elf Queen was dead. . . She was facing a powerful elf lord who would kill her. . . She deserved to die. . . She was alone. . . Then it came to her. She did not deserve to die. And she was not alone. She never would be. Not while her land was beneath her boots. Her land. The land of the Achings. She was Tiffany Aching. Not Granny Weatherwax, but a witch in her own right. A witch who knew exactly who she was and how she wanted to do things. Her way. And she had not failed, because she had barely begun. . . She stood tall. Frosty. Furious. ‘You called me a country girl,’ she said, ‘and I will see to it that the country will see you dead. ’ The land was speaking to her now, filling her up, throwing the glamour of the elf lord aside as though it were nothing, and the air crackled like lightning. Yes, she thought. Thunder and Lightning. The two dogs were long gone, buried in the hills alongside Granny Aching, but their strength was with her. And she was standing firm, her feet on the turf, the murmur of the ancient ocean below swelling through her soles. Earth. Water. She raised her arms. ‘Thunder and Lightning, I command you. ’ Fire and Air. As she drew on the power of the two sheepdogs, there in the air was a flash of lightning, a rumble of thunder. The shepherd’s crown glowed golden on her breast – at the heart of it all, the soul and centre of her being – the golden light rising from the apex to surround her, protect her, add its energy to her own. And the sky broke in half. Never had there been such a storm. It was full of vengeance and the elves were running, or rather trying to run because the Feegles were in their way and the Wee Free Men had no liking for the elves. In the carnage and the shouting, it seemed to Tiffany that she wasn’t in charge any more. She was just a conduit for the wrath of the Chalk. The land under her feet was trembling, shaking like a wounded animal on a leash, yearning to be free. And the shepherd’s crown was shining like a living thing in front of her. A shepherd’s crown, not a royal one. A crown for someone who knew where she had come from. A crown for the lone light zigzagging through the night sky, hunting for a single lost lamb. A crown for the shepherd who was there to herd away the predators. A crown for the shepherd who could work with the best sheepdogs any shepherd could possibly have. A shepherd’s crown. And she heard again that voice: Tiffany Aching is the first among shepherds, for she puts others before herself. . . A king of shepherds. No. . . a queen. She felt she needed to apologize to the crown, apologize for letting these elves come through and threaten this land, and so she said in a whisper, ‘I am Tiffany Aching and my bones are in the Chalk. Let the Chalk be cleansed!’ And the world changed. In the city of Ankh-Morpork, Hex spat out a calculation for Ponder Stibbons – and he saw that an answer was underlined. . . A prayer wheel spun in the monastery of Oi Dong, and the monks bowed down in gratitude. . . While a little boy took his mother’s hand in the travelling now, and said, ‘Mummy, big nasties all gone. . . ’ He had a wooden train in his other hand, and a little backpack of tools over one shoulder. Perhaps he will be an engineer in this new world when he grows up, his mother thought. And in Fairyland, there was a sudden twang , as if a strand connecting the two worlds had suddenly snapped. . . There was fighting still going on – it was hard to stop the Feegles once they got going – and Tiffany walked through it as if in a dream.

The elves were trying to get away now, but the ground seemed to hold them down and she whispered, ‘I ask the Chalk, deliver to me the King of the Elves!’ The heavy dance of the land now had a different tempo. Dust flew out, and there came suddenly the King of the Elves – the stink and his long hair and antlers were unmistakable. Oh, that stink! It had a life of its own. But in a way, Tiffany thought, it was a male stink of life. The huge body loomed over her. ‘How now, Mistress Tiffany. I can’t say, “Well met again,”’ said the King. ‘But I must confess to. . . surprise. You surprised me before,’ he mused, ‘with the gift you left me. A. . . shed. What do you humans do with this place you call a shed?’ He sounded intrigued. ‘It is a place for. . . interests. Where the future can be founded,’ Tiffany said. ‘And a place where those who have lived many years may remember. ’ ‘I have many memories,’ said the King. ‘But I did not know that you had the power to offer me new entertainments, to draw me to new pleasures. Very few in this world or others are able to do so. ’ And now, Tiffany thought, the King of the Elves did see her as more than a young girl. At this meeting she had respect. But he deserved respect too, so she bowed her head towards him, just a little. ‘May I apologize for the hotheads in my kingdom,’ he continued lazily, his voice smooth and delicious. ‘I find them a large annoyance. Quite possibly as you do. ’ He glared at the quivering Peaseblossom, and then at the corpse of Nightshade. ‘You, elf, you killed my queen, my lady Nightshade, just for spite,’ he growled. And the King of the Elves brought himself upright and smacked Peaseblossom with a hand that killed, leaving the carcass just lying there, his careless and casual use of violence shocking Tiffany, despite all she knew of elves. ‘I’m sorry I had to do that,’ he said, ‘but they don’t understand anything else. The universe turns, alas; it turns and we have to accommodate change or move on. This is a good world we had here, mistress,’ the King said now. He shrugged. ‘It’s a shame about the iron. But perhaps as the universe turns, Mistress Tiffany, we might meet again, on a different turn and in more happy circumstances. ’ ‘Yes,’ said Tiffany, ‘we might. Now, begone from my land. ’ Her voice was hard. And in the air there was the piercing sound of a whistle, with an answering screech as the early-morning train left Twoshirts station. ‘Listen, your majesty. That is the song of the five twenty-five for Lancre, and that is your future, my lord. A lifetime of metal if you stay. ’ ‘These mechanisms are interesting. There are tools in my shed, and I wonder if such “trains” could perhaps be made. . . without iron,’ said the King, adding wistfully, ‘I am a man of magic, so I should be able to have anything I want. ’ ‘But you can’t,’ said Tiffany. ‘The railways are not for you. ’ And it seemed to her, as he left, that the King of the Elves was looking thoughtful. As the final elves slipped away to limp back to their land, she turned to Rob Anybody. ‘Rob, let us bury the Lady Nightshade here, where she fell,’ she said quietly. ‘I will mark the spot with a cairn of stones. We will remember this day. We will remember her. ’ Then she added softly, almost to herself: ‘We need to remember. ’ fn1 There was plenty of all these to pick from in Lancre, so he had a good choice of battlegrounds. As long as they were all up and down. fn2 Horace was a cannibal cheese, an adopted member of the Feegle clan. CHAPTER 19 Peace AS THE MORNING flowed into the day, the Feegles were settling down to a feast of drinking, eating and more drinking and telling tales, some of which were bigger than the Feegles themselves. Rob Anybody looked at Tiffany and said, ‘Weel noo, mistress, the field is oor ain! Come on doon intae the mound. Jeannie would love tae see your sonsie face. ’ And Tiffany slid into the mound, which seemed bigger than when she had seen it last. The great hall was full of leaping figures and flying kilts as the Feegles danced their reels – Feegles loved a reel at any time; the slap of boot on earth was like a challenge to the universe. Then, of course, every Feegle wanted every other Feegle to know how well they had conducted themselves against the elves. Every single one of the younger Feegles was wanting Tiffany – their hag o’ the hills – to know how brave he had been. As they gathered around, she said, ‘What are your names, boys?’ Wee Callum, a little bit tongue-tied, said, ‘I’m Callum, mistress. ’ ‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Tiffany. ‘Aye, mistress, and this is my brother, Callum. ’ ‘Two of you?’ she said. ‘Isn’t that difficult?’ ‘Och no, I know who I am and he knows who he is and so does our other brother Callum. ’ ‘And how did you like the fighting?’ ‘Och aye, we smited them weel enough. The Big Man is a hard task master, ye ken. He sees to it that we can handle the mace and the spear and the axe. And, of course, the feets. And when the three of us got one of they scunners doon on the ground, that’s what oor boots was for. ’ The old boys were marching down the lane. And they had a new song now, one that began: ‘Ar-sol, ar-sol, a soldier’s life for me!’ And with each verse, and each step, they were standing straighter and stronger. ‘Ar-sol, ar-sol, a soldier’s life for me! For King, for King, for King and Constabulary, We wee, we wee, we weaken the enemies, For they don’t want it up ’em, don’t want it up ’em, don’t want it up and over !’ And those who had wives kissed them – the wives hadn’t seen their husbands so frisky for years – and then they set off down to the pub to tell their mates all about it. With a pint resting happily in his hand, Captain Makepeace sat on a milestone outside the pub and declaimed, ‘People of Lancre. We happy few, we extremely elderly few, have scorned the horrible elves. They say that old men forget, but we won’t. Not by a long chalk. We thought we were old – but today we found we were still young. ’ And then it was time for another round of drinks. And another, with everyone wanting to stand the old boys a round, until standing was no longer an option. And still the shout went up: Was there time for another flagon? As the moon rose to herald the hours of darkness the following day there was Geoffrey on his broomstick, which was once again hovering in the air. Tiffany shouted over at him, ‘I still don’t know how you can do that!’ ‘No idea, Tiffany – can’t everyone?’ he replied. ‘Let’s ask, for here comes everyone. ’ And indeed, now the other witches were arriving, led by Nanny Ogg and Magrat. It was time to look to the future once again – a future not now filled with elves. But the present, well, the present was filled with the chattering and gossiping of witches as the tales of the two battles were shared. Rob Anybody had set fire to a beacon and Tiffany watched the last witches circling until there was space, then coming in to land one after the other. Not one left her stick hovering, though – it seemed as if Geoffrey was the only one who could make his broomstick do that. ‘I wonder if they’re goin’ to sneak back,’ said Nanny Ogg after a while. ‘You can’t trust Old Hairy. He was tryin’ to charm you, Tiff, by what you say. ’ ‘I know, but I am not charmed,’ said Tiffany. ‘Not since the one elf who tried to be a good elf is now dead. We marked the spot where we buried her, Nanny, you know. And if they do try to come back, we will be ready for them. We can put iron on the stones here on the Chalk, like you’ve laid swarf all around the Dancers in Lancre. ’ Her voice hardened. ‘There is iron in my soul now. And iron in dealing with them should they dare ever to return. ’ ‘Well,’ said Magrat the Queen, ‘we’ve knocked them down so often now that I think he means what he said. I think it’s unlikely they will come back. ’ ‘I’ll drink to them not coming back then,’ said Nanny Ogg. ‘Ladies, while we are gathered,’ said Tiffany, ‘I want to talk to you about Geoffrey.

He has been a great strength to us – and I know you all saw how he made the old men of Lancre into a fighting force. He is clever and cunning and careful. He knows how to listen. And he has a kind of magic. ’ ‘That’s true,’ said Nanny. ‘Everybody likes Geoffrey. Somehow he seems to understand everybody. Believe me, even some of them old girls would be quite happy to have him deal with their aches and pains and worse. He calms people. You all know that. He is calm itself, and the calm stays even when he has left. He doesn’t just jolly people up. After he is gone, they are somehow much better – as if life was still worth havin’. People like that, like Geoffrey, well, they makes the world, well, better. ’ ‘I totally agree with you,’ said Mrs Earwig. ‘ You agrees with me ?’ said Nanny Ogg, almost speechless. ‘Yes, my dear, I do. ’ And Tiffany thought, At last, we will have peace. ‘Thank you, Geoffrey,’ she said under her breath. ‘Now we are all here,’ she said aloud, ‘I must tell you that I can’t manage Granny’s steading. I’m not going to sleep in Granny’s bed any more. Because I’m not her. ’ Nanny grinned. ‘I wondered if’n you would do that, Tiff. You has to be your own woman after all. ’ ‘My roots are in the Chalk and the Chalk is my strength,’ Tiffany continued. ‘My bones will be part of these hills just like those of my Granny Aching. ’ There was a murmur from the witches. They had all heard of Granny Aching by now. ‘And I have some very good boots too. Just as I cannot sleep in Granny Weatherwax’s bed, I cannot wear her boots either. ’ Nanny chuckled. ‘I’ll collect ’em when I’m next up at the cottage, Tiff. I knows Esme’s boots, knows a young witch they’ll do very nicely for. ’ ‘Talking of young witches,’ Tiffany added, ‘Miss Tick has found me some girls with potential. May I send them up to the mountains to begin their training? I will have need of help in the Chalk in the future. ’ The witches were nodding. Of course. For it was the way it was done: the young girls – Nancy Upright and Becky Pardon – would spend time with the senior witches and learn the beginning of their trade. Tiffany took a deep breath. ‘And what I suggest is that Geoffrey be allowed to look after Granny Weatherwax’s cottage and steading for me,’ she said, looking at Nanny Ogg as she said that and getting a wink in return. She glanced at Mrs Earwig and was surprised to see her nod and say, ‘He’s a very nice decent young man, and we have seen him at work, and now we live in the time of the railways so perhaps we should change our ways. Yes, I believe Mister Geoffrey should take care of Granny’s – Tiffany’s – steading in Lancre. He’s no witch, but he’s certainly much more than the usual sort of backhouse boy. ’ And Tiffany could see Mrs Earwig’s mind working, and she felt certain that the next time she saw the witch, she would have a lad somewhere around her establishment. Out loud, Nanny said, ‘What did you call him, Tiff? A calm-weaver? Shall we leave it at that for now?’ But Magrat wanted her say too. ‘Verence heard of what he did for the old men,’ she said. ‘He believes he should have a reward. And I think I know exactly what would suit. . . ’ And thus, a few weeks later, Lord Swivel was most surprised to see his third son riding proudly up his long, long drive, a herald at his side fn1 and a pennant with the royal insignia of Lancre fluttering in the breeze. The same insignia was also on a velvet coat over the flanks of Mephistopheles. ‘May I announce His Royal Ambassadorship Geoffrey Swivel,’ proclaimed the herald, breaking into a few notes on the trumpet he held. Geoffrey’s mother sobbed with delight, while his father – a man on whom no calm-weaving would ever work – boiled inside with fury as he had to bow to the son he had treated as a nobody. But no one argued with the power of a crown. There was a purpose to this visit, though. After the usual bowing, scraping and general knee-bending any royal emissary took as his due, Geoffrey grinned around at the assembled company and said, ‘Father, I have exciting news! Those of us in the country may oft feel neglected by those in the big city but let me assure you, this is not the case. There have, in fact, been important developments just recently in the field of. . . chicken runs. Some young people in Ankh-Morpork. . . young people whose parents have the power to indulge their wishes’ – and he tapped his nose with a finger to show that he expected his father to know these important parents – ‘feel that it may no longer be necessary to hunt sly old Mister Reynard to protect our chickens. ’ He beamed. ‘They have come up with a new chicken run which is totally impervious to foxes. And you, Father, are the lucky, lucky landowner who has been chosen to test this new design. ’ As his father spluttered, and his brother Hugh shouted ‘Hurrah!’ for no particular reason except that it felt like someone should, Geoffrey looked around. He could see his mother’s face. Normally she looked like someone the world had trodden on so many times that it was almost an invitation to tread on her yourself, but now she stood tall, her chin high. ‘Harold. Our son has worked wonders, and here is a king honouring him and treating him as a friend,’ she said proudly. ‘Don’t you look at me like that, Harold, for today I have spoken. And the Queen of Lancre has invited me to come and visit her,’ she added with satisfaction. There was a bleat from Mephistopheles, and as Geoffrey’s father turned to stamp away, the goat turned its back and aimed a square set of devilish hooves right onto Lord Swivel’s rump. Followed by a raucous fart that almost – but not quite – covered up the noise of the man falling flat on his face. ‘A most usefully offensive goat,’ Geoffrey murmured to McTavish, who had come to stand by his side. The old stable-lad looked around. ‘ And one your father cannot touch,’ he said with a wink. ‘Not with that fancy coat on its back. ’ He sniffed. ‘My word, though, Mephistopheles isn’t easy on the nose – he whiffs even worse than I remember. ’ ‘Yes,’ said Geoffrey, ‘but he can climb trees. And use a privy. Even count. He’s a strange creature; he can turn a dark day into a clear one. Look into his eyes sometime. ’ And McTavish looked, and then hastily looked away. fn1 Shawn Ogg, in another of his royal duties. EPILOGUE A Whisper on the Chalk TWO DAYS AFTER the battle, Tiffany led one of the farm horses up to the hills above the farm. It was a perfect early autumn’s day. There was a wonderful cerulean sky, buzzards screaming overhead and a clear view towards the distant mountains of Lancre, their tops still covered in snow even at this time of year. There were always a handful of sheep up in this part of the downs, whatever the weather. At this time of year there were half-grown lambs kicking their heels and chasing about while the ewes grazed nearby. Here was a well-known landmark for those who knew. A special place for sheep and farmers alike. The place where Granny Aching now lay beneath the turf. Only the iron wheels of her hut and the old pot-bellied stove with its chimney were still visible, but the ground, the ground was holy: Tiffany came to look at it every time she felt the world grinding her down, and here, where the wind never stopped blowing, she felt that she could deal with anything. With the help of the horse and a strong rope, Tiffany hauled the rusty wheels out of the turf where they had been embedded, and painstakingly greased and coaxed them back together. Rob Anybody had watched her for a while after she had rebuffed his offer to help, then departed with a puzzled look on his face, muttering about geases, and what he’d like to do to them. The following day, Tiffany went to visit old Mr Block, the local carpenter. He had once made her a doll’s house when she was a little girl; now she had a bigger home in mind. He was pleased to see her but was startled when he discovered what she wanted from him. ‘Mr Block, I would like you to teach me to be a carpenter. I am going to build myself a hut – a shepherding hut.

’ The carpenter was a kindly man and offered to help. ‘You are a witch,’ he said. ‘I’m a carpenter. A little hut like that wouldn’t take me long. Your granny was very good to our family and you helped my sister Margaret. I’d be happy to do it for you. ’ But Tiffany was very definite. ‘That’s nice of you,’ she said, ‘but all the work on this hut must be done by me. It will be mine, from top to bottom, and I will pull it to where the larks rise. And I’ll still be a witch when anyone should call. But there I will live. ’ On my own, she thought to herself. For now, anyway, for who knew what the future might bring. . . And her hand crept to her pocket, where she had Preston’s latest letter to savour. And so Tiffany learned carpentry every evening after her day’s work was done. It took her some weeks to finish it, but eventually there was a new shepherd’s hut stationed close to Granny Aching’s grave. There were three steps up to its wooden door, a horseshoe and a tuft of sheep’s wool – the sign of a shepherd – already nailed in place there, and the roof arched over a small living space into which she had built a bed, a little cupboard, a few shelves and a space for a wash basin. From the bed, she could see out of a small window – see clear across the downs, right to the horizon. And she could see the sun rise, and set, and the moon dance through its guises – the magic of everyday that was no less magic for that. She loaded up the old farm horse again with the bedding from her little room in the farmhouse and her few possessions, said goodbye to her parents and headed up the hill in the late afternoon sun. ‘Are you sure, jigget, that this is what you really want?’ said her father. ‘Yes, it is,’ Tiffany replied. Her mother cried and handed her a new quilt and a freshly baked loaf of bread to go with the cheese Tiffany had made that morning. Halfway up the hill, Tiffany turned to look down at the farm and saw her parents still arm in arm. She waved and carried on climbing without looking back again. It had been a long day. They were always long days. Later that evening, once she had made her little bed in the hut, she went out to collect some kindling. The white cat, You, followed close behind. The little tracks of the Chalk were very familiar to Tiffany. She had walked along them with Granny Aching years ago. And as she reached the wood at the top of the rise, Tiffany thought she saw somebody walking through the dusky shadows under the trees. Not just one person alone. There seemed to be two figures, both strangely familiar. Beside them, alert to every gesture, every nod, every whistle, trotted two sheepdogs. Granny Weatherwax, Tiffany thought. Side by side with Granny Aching, Thunder and Lightning at their heels. And the little words in her head came unbidden: You are the shepherd’s crown, jigget. You are the shepherd’s crown. One of the figures looked over and gave her a brief nod, whilst the other paused and bowed her head. Tiffany bowed back, solemnly, respectfully. And then the figures were gone. On the way back to the hut, Tiffany looked down at the cat and, on a sudden impulse, spoke to it. ‘Where is Granny Weatherwax, You?’ There was a pause, and the cat made a long meow , which appeared to end, ‘ Meow. . . vrywhere. ’ And then purred, just like any other cat, and rubbed her hard little head against Tiffany’s leg. Tiffany thought of the little spot in the woods where Granny Weatherwax lay. Remembered. And knew that You had been right. Granny Weatherwax was indeed here. And there. She was, in fact, and always would be, everywhere. There was a long stream of visitors to the shepherding hut once it became known that Tiffany was back on the Chalk for good. Joe Aching came up to deliver some messages – and a new letter, from Preston! – and bring Tiffany some things her mother had decided she needed. He looked around the neat little hut with approval. Tiffany had made the space very comfortable. He looked at the books on the shelf and smiled. Tiffany had left Granny Aching’s Diseases of the Sheep at the farm, but both Flowers of the Chalk and The Goode Childe’s Booke of Faerie Tales had their place by the little shepherd’s crown he had given her. On the back of the door was a wooden peg on which hung her witch’s hat. ‘I reckon ye’ll find some use for this too,’ her father said as he took a bottle of Special Sheep’s Liniment (made according to Granny Aching’s recipe) out of his pocket and placed it on the shelf. Tiffany laughed and hoped her father hadn’t heard the cry of ‘Crivens!’ from the roof of the hut. He looked up as some dust fell down from where Big Yan sat on Daft Wullie to silence him. ‘I hope ye haven’t got woodworm already, Tiff. ’ She laughed again as she gave him a hug to say goodbye. Mr Block was an early visitor too. He puffed his way up the hill and found her settled in with You the cat sitting on her lap while she sorted rags. Tiffany watched nervously as the old carpenter looked around and under the hut with a professional eye. When he had finished, she gave him a cup of tea and asked him what he thought. ‘You’ve done well, lass. Very well. I have never seen a boy apprentice take to carpentry as quickly as this, and you are a girl. ’ ‘Not a girl,’ Tiffany said. ‘I’m a witch. ’ And she looked down to the little cat beside her and said, ‘That’s so, isn’t it, You?’ Mr Block looked at her suspiciously for a moment. ‘So did you use magic to make the hut, miss?’ ‘I didn’t have to,’ said Tiffany. ‘The magic was already here. ’ The End. 1948–2015 AFTERWORD The Shepherd’s Crown is Terry Pratchett’s final novel. It was written in his last year before he finally succumbed in early 2015 to the ‘embuggerance’ of posterior cortical atrophy. Terry had been diagnosed back in 2007, the year that he wrote Nation. At that time, Terry thought he might have less than two years to live and that brought a new urgency to his writing. He had never been a slouch in this respect but now things were measured by the cost in writing time. If demands for his presence took him away from writing, it had to be really worthwhile, such as feeding the chickens or attending to his tortoises. He had so many more books he wanted to write. It says a lot for Terry’s resilience and determination not to go down without a fight that he wrote five more full-length bestselling novels between Nation and The Shepherd’s Crown (as well as collaborating with Stephen Baxter on five Long Earth novels). And Terry was still developing new ideas for books right up to his final few months. fn1 Terry usually had more than one book on the go at a time and he discovered what each was about as he went along. He would start somewhere, telling himself the story as he wrote it, writing the bits he could see clearly and assembling it all into a whole – like a giant literary jigsaw – when he was done. Once it was shaped, he would keep writing it too, adding to it, fixing bits, constantly polishing and adding linking sequences, tossing in just one more footnote or event. His publishers often had to prise the manuscript away from him, as there was always more he felt he could do, even though by then he would be well into the next story which was tugging at his elbow. Eventually the book was sent to the printer, and reluctantly Terry would let it go. Terry had been thinking about the key elements in Tiffany Aching and Granny Weatherwax’s last story for a few years. He wrote the pivotal scenes while he was still writing Raising Steam and then re-wrote them several times as he shaped the rest of The Shepherd’s Crown around them. The Shepherd’s Crown has a beginning, a middle and an end, and all the bits in between. Terry wrote all of those. But even so, it was, still, not quite as finished as he would have liked when he died. If Terry had lived longer, he would almost certainly have written more of this book. There are things we all wish we knew more about. But what we have is a remarkable book, Terry’s final book, and anything you wish to know more about in here, you are welcome to imagine yourself.

Rob Wilkins May 2015 Salisbury, UK fn1 We will now not know how the old folk of Twilight Canyons solve the mystery of a missing treasure and defeat the rise of a Dark Lord despite their failing memories, nor the secret of the crystal cave and the carnivorous plants in The Dark Incontinent , nor how Constable Feeney solves a whodunnit amongst the congenitally decent and honest goblins, nor how the second book about the redoubtable Maurice as a ship’s cat might have turned out. And these are just a few of the ideas his office and family know about. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Despite the effects of his Alzheimer’s disease, Terry wanted to keep writing as long as possible and was able to do so not least through the assistance of his fine editorial team. Lyn, Rhianna and Rob would most especially like to thank Philippa Dickinson and Sue Cook for their tireless help and encouragement that kept the words flowing. A Feegle Glossary adjusted for those of a delicate disposition (A Work In Progress By Miss Perspicacia Tick, witch) Bigjobs : human beings Big Man : chief of the clan (usually the husband of the kelda) Blethers : rubbish, nonsense Bogle : see Schemie Boggin : to be desperate, as in ‘I’m boggin for a cup of tea’ Brose : porridge with a drop of strong drink added – or more than a drop. Be warned: it will put hairs on your chest Bunty : a weak person Carlin : old woman Cludgie : the privy Corbies : big, black burdies known by most people as crows Crivens! : a general exclamation that can mean anything from ‘My goodness!’ to ‘I’ve just lost my temper and there is going to be trouble’ Dree your/my/his/her weird : facing the fate that is in store for you/me/him/her Een : eyes Eldritch : weird, strange; sometimes means oblong too, for some reason Fash : worry, upset Geas : a very important obligation, backed up by tradition and magic. Not a bird Gonnagle : the bard of the clan, skilled in music and stories Hag : a witch, of any age Hag o’ hags : a very important witch Hagging/Haggling : anything a witch does Hiddlins : secrets Kelda : the female head of the clan, and eventually the mother of most of it. Feegle babies are very small, and a kelda will have hundreds in her lifetime Lang syne : long ago Last World : the Feegles believe that they are dead. This world is so filled with all they like, they argue, that they must have been really good in a past life and then died and ended up here. Appearing to die here means merely going back to the Last World, which they believe is rather dull Mowpie : furry animals with white tufts as tails, making them easy to spot. Sometimes called rabbits. Good to eat, especially with a dab of snail relish on the side Mudlin : useless person Pished : I am assured that this means ‘tired’ Schemie : an unpleasant person Scuggan : a really unpleasant person Scunner : a generally unpleasant person Ships : woolly things that eat grass and go baa. Easily confused with the other kind Spavie : see Mudlin Special Sheep Liniment : probably moonshine whisky, I am very sorry to say. A favourite of the Feegles. Do not try to make this at home Spog : a small leather bag at the front of a Feegle’s kilt, which covers whatever he presumably thinks needs to be hidden, and generally holds things like something he is halfway through eating, something he’d found that now therefore belongs to him, and whatever he was using as a handkerchief, which might not necessarily be dead Steamie : only found in the big Feegle mounds in the mountains, where there’s enough water to allow regular bathing; it’s a kind of sauna. Feegles on the Chalk tend to rely on the fact that you can only get so much dirt on you before it starts to fall off of its own accord Waily : a general cry of despair The Witches of Discworld by Jacqueline Simpson (co-author of The Folklore of Discworld ) The witches of Discworld spend rather less time than one might suppose on actually doing magic. Mostly, they are called in to cope with other people’s problems. It is to them that the village turns when a child or a cow falls desperately sick, when a woman is having a difficult labour, when those who are dying cannot actually die. It is then that witches have to bring help – and take responsibility. There is nothing romantic about this work, nothing dramatic, no magic potions to cure the sick in an instant. Witchcraft is mostly about helping people by doing quite ordinary things. However, cures and advice are more likely to be accepted if they sound magical. On one occasion a rather rational witch had been carefully telling one family that their well was much too close to their privy, so the water was full of tiny, tiny creatures which were making the children sick. They listened politely, but did nothing. Then Granny Weatherwax visited them and told them the illness was caused by goblins who were attracted to the smell of the privy, and that very day the man of the house and his friends began digging a new well at the other end of the garden. A story gets things done. Witches also often adjudicate in neighbourly disputes; they see to it that where there has been injustice there will be a reckoning. It is a life of hard work, and rather lonely, for though a witch gains respect, she is always slightly feared. It is also a witch’s duty to defend her homeland against the insidious incursions of malevolent beings from other dimensions, such as elves. She must keep watch, she must guard the borders and the gateways, even if in doing so she puts herself in danger too. How does a girl become a witch? First, she must have some natural inborn talent, even if she does not yet realize it. Here, heredity can help, and in Tiffany’s case it does: the Achings, like the Weatherwaxes, have witching in their blood. But she needs training too, so when she is about eleven she must leave home and become part servant, part apprentice to an old witch, from whom she will learn about herbs and medicines and magical techniques, and whose area she will normally take over when the old one dies. These techniques, unlike those of wizards, are not showy. True, there are a few witches who go in for grimoires and occult silver jewellery, but they are either conceited or inexperienced. The best witches use the simplest means – no need for a crystal ball for scrying when a few drops of ink in an old saucer of rainwater are quite as good; no carved wand when any stick will do. Their main tool is the ‘shambles’, a powerful magic-detector and -projector which looks a bit like a particularly complicated cat’s cradle, a bit like a broken set of puppet-strings, and a bit like a very untidy dream-catcher. But even this is formed from the simplest things. You have to make your own, fresh every time, out of whatever happens to be in your pockets. In the centre you put something alive – an egg, say, or a beetle or small worm – and pull the strings, and as the objects twirl past or even through one another, the device works. In the presence of really powerful magic, it may explode. One of the minor benefits of being a witch is that you know, months or even years in advance, exactly when you are going to die, so you can stage-manage the event to perfection. Having done all the obvious things (cleaned the cottage, made a will, destroyed any embarrassing old letters or spells still lying around), had a nice grave dug ready for you, some witches choose to throw a really good ‘going-away party’. This is like a wake, but with yourself as guest of honour, still taking a keen interest, and distributing pleasant keepsakes to your friends. But there are also some who go in privacy to meet their old acquaintance, the Reaper. About the Author Terry Pratchett was the acclaimed creator of the global bestselling Discworld ® series, the first of which, The Colour of Magic , was published in 1983. The Shepherd’s Crown is his forty-first Discworld novel. His books have been widely adapted for stage and screen, and he was the winner of multiple prizes, including the Carnegie Medal, as well as being awarded a knighthood for services to literature.

He died in March 2015. For more information about Terry Pratchett and his books, please visit www. terrypratchett. co. uk BOOKS BY TERRY PRATCHETT The Discworld ® series 1. THE COLOUR OF MAGIC 2. THE LIGHT FANTASTIC 3. EQUAL RITES 4. MORT 5. SOURCERY 6. WYRD SISTERS 7. PYRAMIDS 8. GUARDS! GUARDS! 9. ERIC (illustrated by Josh Kirby) 10. MOVING PICTURES 11. REAPER MAN 12. WITCHES ABROAD 13. SMALL GODS 14. LORDS AND LADIES 15. MEN AT ARMS 16. SOUL MUSIC 17. INTERESTING TIMES 18. MASKERADE 19. FEET OF CLAY 20. HOGFATHER 21. JINGO 22. THE LAST CONTINENT 23. CARPE JUGULUM 24. THE FIFTH ELEPHANT 25. THE TRUTH 26. THIEF OF TIME 27. THE LAST HERO (illustrated by Paul Kidby) 28. THE AMAZING MAURICE AND HIS EDUCATED RODENTS (for young adults) 29. NIGHT WATCH 30. THE WEE FREE MEN (for young adults) 31. MONSTROUS REGIMENT 32. A HAT FULL OF SKY (for young adults) 33. GOING POSTAL 34. THUD! 35. WINTERSMITH (for young adults) 36. MAKING MONEY 37. UNSEEN ACADEMICALS 38. I SHALL WEAR MIDNIGHT (for young adults) 39. SNUFF 40. RAISING STEAM Other books about Discworld THE SCIENCE OF DISCWORLD THE SCIENCE OF DISCWORLD II: THE GLOBE THE SCIENCE OF DISCWORLD III: DARWIN’S WATCH THE SCIENCE OF DISCWORLD IV: JUDGEMENT DAY (with Ian Stewart and Jack Cohen) TURTLE RECALL: THE NEW DISCWORLD COMPANION. . . SO FAR (with Stephen Briggs) NANNY OGG’S COOKBOOK (with Stephen Briggs, Tina Hannan and Paul Kidby) THE PRATCHETT PORTFOLIO (with Paul Kidby) THE DISCWORLD ALMANAK (with Bernard Pearson) THE UNSEEN UNIVERSITY CUT-OUT BOOK (with Alan Batley and Bernard Pearson) WHERE’S MY COW? (illustrated by Melvyn Grant) THE ART OF DISCWORLD (with Paul Kidby) THE WIT AND WISDOM OF DISCWORLD (compiled by Stephen Briggs) THE FOLKLORE OF DISCWORLD (with Jacqueline Simpson) THE WORLD OF POO (with the Discworld Emporium) THE COMPLEAT ANKH-MORPORK (with the Discworld Emporium) THE STREETS OF ANKH-MORPORK (with Stephen Briggs, painted by Stephen Player) THE DISCWORLD MAPP (with Stephen Briggs, painted by Stephen Player) A TOURIST GUIDE TO LANCRE – A DISCWORLD MAPP (with Stephen Briggs, illustrated by Paul Kidby) DEATH’S DOMAIN (with Paul Kidby) A complete list of Terry Pratchett ebooks and audio books as well as other books based on the Discworld series – illustrated screenplays, graphic novels, comics and plays – can be found on www. terrypratchett. co. uk Shorter Writings ONCE MORE * WITH FOOTNOTES A BLINK OF THE SCREEN A SLIP OF THE KEYBOARD Non-Discworld books THE DARK SIDE OF THE SUN STRATA THE UNADULTERATED CAT (illustrated by Gray Jolliffe) GOOD OMENS (with Neil Gaiman) THE LONG EARTH (with Stephen Baxter) THE LONG WAR (with Stephen Baxter) THE LONG MARS (with Stephen Baxter) THE LONG UTOPIA (with Stephen Baxter) Non-Discworld books for young adults THE CARPET PEOPLE TRUCKERS DIGGERS WINGS ONLY YOU CAN SAVE MANKIND JOHNNY AND THE DEAD JOHNNY AND THE BOMB NATION DODGER DODGER’S GUIDE TO LONDON DRAGONS AT CRUMBLING CASTLE Praise for Sir Terry Pratchett ‘Terry was one of our greatest fantasists, and beyond a doubt the funniest’ – George R. R. Martin ‘A Terry Pratchett book is a small miracle’ – Neil Gaiman ‘Discworld is one of the very most fabulous creations in all of literature’ – Patrick Ness ‘No writer in my lifetime has given me as much pleasure and happiness’ – A. S. Byatt ‘A writer of monumental talent’ – Rick Riordan ‘His fantasies sit alongside – and are the equals of – those of Rabelais, Voltaire, Swift, Kurt Vonnegut and Douglas Adams. . . But whereas all these are neatly arranged on the bookshelves, my Pratchetts are strewn under the beds, in the bathrooms, the glove compartments. They have shopping lists, takeaway orders and Scrabble scores scribbled on the fly leaves. They were part of life’ – Frank Cottrell Boyce THE SHEPHERD’S CROWN AN RHCP DIGITAL EBOOK 978 1 448 19714 9 Published in Great Britain by RHCP Digital, an imprint of Random House Children’s Publishers UK A Penguin Random House Company This ebook edition published 2015 Text copyright © Terry and Lyn Pratchett, 2015 Illustrations copyright © Paul Kidby, 2015 Terry Pratchett ® , Discworld ® , Wee Free Men ® and Unseen University ® are registered trademarks. First Published in Great Britain ‘The Witches of Discworld’ bonus content copyright © Jacqueline Simpson, 2015 Doubleday Childrens 9780857534811 2015 The right of Terry Pratchett to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly. RANDOM HOUSE CHILDREN’S PUBLISHERS UK 61–63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA www. randomhousechildrens. co. uk www. totallyrandombooks. co. uk www. randomhouse. co. uk Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at: www. randomhouse. co. uk/offices. htm THE RANDOM HOUSE GROUP Limited Reg. No. 954009 A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. .