(Shadowmarch #1) Shadowmarch (97 page)

Music drifted out of the guildhall as he passed, the voices of men and boys lifted in song. The men’s choir was practicing for year’s end, the timeless songs of their people shared between them like a meal. Schist the chorister would be pacing back and forth, listening, frowning, absently wagging one hand to show the rhythm. For the singers all was ordinary tonight, even the threat of war and tales of Chert’s weird adventures largely a diversion. The Funderlings outlasted wars, or at least they always had: builders, diggers, miners, they were too valuable to kill and too hard to catch in their serpentine retreats even if someone wished to kill them.
We stone folk stay close to the ground,
his father used to say.
The view is not so proud, but we’re harder to knock down.

Would they outlast Old Night, too, if it came?

Why has my life been broken into pieces?
Chert wondered.
Why have I been singled out?

 

To his growing amazement, the girl led him into the very heart of the castle. A crush of people surrounded the Raven’s Gate, guards arguing with a variety of petitioners, but one of them recognized her and let her through, although he cast a mistrustful eye over Chert before allowing the Funderling to follow her into the inner keep. Willow did not speak to anyone, but led him through open spaces, gardens, and covered walkways until even his fine sense of direction was confused. The sun had set and the air was bitingly cold. Chert was glad that he had brought his warm coat, although it had been hard to believe he would need it when he left, so much was he still remembering the heat of the depths. It made him a little sad that Opal had not reminded him to take it as she usually did, but he told himself that even his all-seeing, all-knowing wife couldn’t remember everything, especially in the midst of such a strange day.

As he finally pulled on the coat, Willow led him through a gate and into an arbored garden lit by a few torches in stands. Chert did not know what garden it was, and he certainly didn’t recognize the man waiting on a low bench. He had half-suspected he would find Chaven on the other side of this mysterious summons and it was hard to fight a feeling of disappointment bordering on real fear to discover this stranger instead.

The man turned his face toward them as they approached; his eyes seemed as disturbingly incurious as the girl’s. He was almost Chaven’s opposite, younger than the physician and much thinner, with hair close-cropped in an awkward way that looked as if he had done it himself with a knife, and without looking.

Perhaps that’s why he needs the mirror,
Chert thought, but he was not amusing anyone today, least of all himself. “You sent for me,” he said aloud, as firmly as he could manage. “As though you were my master and not just the girl’s. But you are not, so tell me your business.”

“Did you bring the mirror?” The man’s voice was slow and quiet.

“You will answer my questions first. Who are you and what do you want?”

“Who am I?” The stranger said it slowly, as though it were an unexpected question. “Here, in this place, I am called Gil. I think I have another name . . . but I cannot remember it.”

Chert felt a quiver of panic move down his backbone. The man had the detachment of the mad, as calm as Chert’s old grandfather had been in his last years, sitting beside the fire in his house like a lizard in the sun, barely moving at all from unseen dawn to day’s end.

“I don’t know what that nonsense means, but I know you have called me out of my home at a time when my family has great need of me. I will ask you again—what do you want?”

“To prevent the destruction of two races. To put off the finality of the Great Defeat a little longer, even if it cannot forever be averted.” The one named Gil nodded slowly, as if he only now understood his own words. For the first time, he smiled—a thin, ghostly thing. “Is that not enough?”

“I have no idea what you mean, what these things are you speak about.” Chert wanted badly to turn around and walk, even run, until stone was above him once more. Clouds hung overhead, night clouds so thick that he couldn’t see the moon or stars, but it was still nothing like being in his own place, among his own people and his own homely things.

“Neither do I,” said Gil. “But I am given to understand a little, and that little is this—you must give me the mirror. Then your work is done.”

Chert almost clutched at the mirror again, even though neither the strange man nor the girl looked like much of a threat to take it away from him. Still, they were twice his height . . .
Just let them try,
he thought.
Just let them try to get the thing my son almost died for . . .
And then he realized for the first time what he had been thinking in a wordless way for some time; the mirror was the answer. The mirror was what had taken Flint down into the depths of the Mysteries, and what had almost killed him. “No, I will not give you the mirror—if I even had such a thing.”

“You have it,” Gil said mildly. “I can feel it. And it is not yours to keep.”

“It is my son’s!”

Gil shook his head. “I think not, although that is somewhat dark to me. But it doesn’t matter. You have it now. If you give it to me, you may go home and never think of it again.”

“I will not give it to you.”

“Then you must come with me,” the strange man said. “The hour is almost upon us. The mirror must be carried to her. It will not prevent Old Night and the destruction of all, but it may gain a little time.”

“What does this mean? What are you talking about? Carried to her? Who in the name of the Earth Elders is ‘her’?”

“She is called Yasammez,” the stranger told him. “She is one of the oldest. She is death, and she has been loosed on your kind at last.”

The afternoon sun was beginning to settle behind the hills. From where they sat on a rocky hilltop prominence, looking southeast toward the castle, although it was still too far away to see, the grass was a damp, rich green and the sky was marbled with sunlight and cloud. In all ways it would have seemed a crisp, cool day at the turning of winter had it not been for the clot of fog rolling across the land below them, obscuring all but the highest slopes of the downs as it reached toward Southmarch.

“It must be them,” said Tyne Aldritch, and spat. “You said that it came down from the Shadowline, Vansen, a fog like that. You said they traveled under it like a cloak.”

The captain of the guard stirred. His face was pinched, worried. “That is what the merchant’s nephew told us, the one whose caravan was attacked. When my men and I stumbled across the boundary, there was no fog. But, yes, I think it’s likely our enemies are in that murk.”

Barrick was finding it hard to do anything at this moment except stay upright in his saddle. They had driven the army far and fast already today, and even though he was mounted, he was astonishingly weary and his bad arm ached as though someone had pushed a dagger between the bones of his wrist. Not for the first time today he wished he had kept his mouth closed and stayed at home.

But if we don’t stop them, it will only be a different sort of death for those who remained behind in Southmarch.
All during the day today the memory of the pale faces of the shadow-things, the dead but still terrifying eyes, had troubled him. He had not eaten. He could not imagine putting anything in his stomach except water.

“Are our scouts fast enough to beat them to the city?” asked Lord Fiddicks. “If we can get Brone’s garrison out, we can catch them as between hammer and anvil.”

“Our scouts might, but I think we should not trust to them alone,” said Earl Tyne. “Ah, but we have pigeons, don’t we? We will send messages that way. A bird will go faster than any man, especially if that man is riding a tired horse.”

Ferras Vansen cleared his throat. Oddly, he looked at Barrick for permission to speak. Despite his weariness and misery, Barrick was amused that the world of title and privilege should still exist after the morning’s debacle, but he nodded.

“It is just . . .” Vansen began. “My lords, it seems to me that we cannot wait.”

Tyne growled in irritation. “You would make the gods weep, man, you take so long to speak your mind. What do you mean?”

“If we go at this pace, we will not overtake them. They are mostly on foot, as are we, but their troops seem to move swiftly. If they can march at night, they will reach the mainland city by morning.”

“Good,” said Rorick. He had sustained only a few small cuts in the fighting—Barrick had noticed that he had not been one of the first into the thick of things—but wore his bandages with a prideful flair. “Then we will trap them against the bay. Fairies do not like water, everyone knows. When Brone comes out against them, we will tear them to pieces.”

Vansen shook his head. “I beg your pardon, my lord, but I fear that idea. I think we must try to stop them on the downs, in the farmlands outside the city.”

The other nobles made mocking noises—some even quietly called Vansen a fool, although he ignored their words. Even Tyne Aldritch seemed annoyed and turned to send his squire for wine. Barrick saw foot soldiers stealing the chance to sit or even lie down while the nobles argued on the hilltop; he realized that the men had been walking all day with armor and weapons, and were at least as aching and dispirited as he was, but perhaps twice as tired.

“Yes, tell us what you mean, Captain Vansen,” Barrick said out loud. “Why shouldn’t we wait and catch them between our two forces?”

Vansen nodded at him like a tutor pleased by his pupil, which made Barrick regret taking the man’s side. “Because there are too many unknowns,” the guard captain said. “What if we cannot get a message through to the lord constable?”

“Then he will come out when he sees the fighting,” said Rorick. “Really, that is a foolish fear. This is a waste of time. What is this man doing here?”

“He is here because until today, he was the only one of us who had met the enemy,” said Tyne; his irritation was obviously not confined to Vansen alone. “And while not all of us can say the same, he acquitted himself bravely this morning as well.”

Rorick flushed, covering it by sending his own squire for wine.

“Just say what you are thinking, Captain.” Barrick wondered how he had suddenly become Vansen’s protector.

“First, as we have seen, strange things happen around the Twilight People. Can a pigeon find its way through or around that murk? Possibly. Will Brone be able to see what happens as the fog comes down and covers the coast and the city—will he know we are fighting for our lives just a half mile away? It seems obvious, but believe me, things in those shadows are not always what they seem, as I learned to my regret. You’ve seen a little of that now, too, all of you.

“More importantly, what happens when our enemy reaches the city along the shore? Will they stand and fight us on open ground? Or will they disappear instead into the streets and alleyways, into the sewers and cellars and deserted buildings? How will we fight them then? We will be muddled, confused—you all remember that wood on the hilltop, fighting against a tenth of the numbers of this force. Would you give them a thousand more places to hide? It will be as though their army had grown tenfold again.”

“But the city is largely empty,” said one of the other nobles, puzzled. “The people have been taken inside the castle walls or have fled south.”

“What of it?” asked Vansen.

“If they move into the city,” Rorick said scornfully, “then we will put fire to it. We will burn them out. What better way to deal with unnatural creatures?”

“Forgive me, my lord,” said Vansen, although he didn’t look as if he wanted or expected forgiveness, “but that is spoken as only a man who owns several castles can speak. Thousands of people make their homes there! And the city and its farms keeps Southmarch Castle alive.”

“I have had enough of this peasant’s insults,” Rorick said, pawing at the hilt of his sword. “He must be punished.”

“You have the right to challenge him, Longarren,” Tyne pointed out, “but I will not punish a man for speaking as Vansen has spoken.”

Rorick looked from Tyne Aldritch to Vansen. He appeared notably reluctant to pull his sword from its sheath. At last he tugged on his horse’s reins and turned and rode down the hill. His squire, who had just returned with his saddle-cup, hurried after him.

“Continue, Captain,” said Tyne.

“Thank you, my lords.” Vansen turned to Barrick, his face grim. “Leaving aside what my liege lord Earl Rorick thinks, Highness, do not forget that they seem to be at least as many as we are. And even if we would sacrifice many men in close fighting and then put the torch to the greatest city in the March Kingdoms, what makes us think that we could burn that city without hindrance? Having met this enemy twice, I think it is madness to suppose them such children. They plan! They are patient! And we do not know the half yet of what they can do.”