The Gift (9 page)

Then came a sound Maerad disliked even more: silence. The wers were regrouping.

Cadvan put down his sword and rummaged through his pack. “Drink something,” he said. He passed her the bottle that contained the herbed drink. “Now we must be vigilant.”

“What for?”

“Anything. Anything at all. Sit with your back to the fire. Try to remember that this tower is roofless. The only way they can get in now is from above. The fire will daunt them, but not enough.”

Maerad grasped her dagger in her hand and sat next to Cadvan, straining to listen. She could hear nothing but the blood in her ears. Dread rose in her heart until she almost wished something would happen, anything, anything to break this horrible suspense. She stole a look at Cadvan. He looked almost serene, his face relaxed, his eyes watchful. She took a deep breath.

They sat in this silence for what seemed like hours. Every now and then Maerad moved to ease the aches in her body, but Cadvan never stirred.

“Maybe they’ve gone away,” she said at last. “We’ve heard nothing for ages and ages.”

“Ssshhh,” Cadvan hissed. “The only thing we can be sure of is that they haven’t gone away.
Listen.
”

“But there’s nothing to hear.”

“They will wait. They want our wills to weaken in fear. They feed on our fear. It’s their life, their bread. Starve them! Send your mind out into the night. Use the Gift you have. Send it out into the night. Then you will hear.”

Maerad wondered what he meant. Perhaps she should . . . Experimentally she gathered up her mind and imagined it past the walls of the guardhouse. At once she felt cold, although she still had her back to the fire. It was as if she had stepped outside, although she could see nothing but the opposite wall. But she heard the slow flapping of wings, wings of creatures that she could not imagine, wings without feathers, taloned and heavy, and heard hisses, as of cold breaths drawn in and out of cold, leathery bellows.

“Wings,” she whispered. “But giant wings. It’s not bats, or it’s bats as big as wolves.”

“Yes. They are close. The barrier will not hold them. I cannot make it high enough.”

“But I can’t see anything, Cadvan, I can’t see
anything.
” Maerad turned to him, her eyes wide. “They’re so big, I can hear how big they are. What are we . . .”

“Silence!” Cadvan turned with the fury of a snake. “I can’t be patting your hand like that of a terrified child. If we are to get through this night with our hides in one piece, you must remember who you are. You are one of the Gift. Grow up, or we will die here.”

Maerad swallowed. Cadvan was preoccupied again, taking no notice of her, listening and watching, his sword in readiness. She took a deep breath and pushed back the terror that had started to take hold of her mind, winding its way through her muscles, insidious and cold, like a poison mist. Her heart was pounding, but she forced herself to relax. She held her pitiful dagger in her hand. It seemed so small. She wished she had a sword and knew how to use it. Perhaps then she might feel more like a warrior. She sent out her mind again, not knowing what else to do, and heard the winged creatures, farther away now, higher up. They were flying to the top of the barrier. What was the barrier made of? She didn’t know, but they were going to fly over it and down on top of them. She knew that now. Instinctively she stood up, and saw that Cadvan was also standing, staring above them, up the walls where the fire flickered into shadow and then blackness. She moved closer to the fire. Cadvan threw another few logs on, building it up so the flames leaped high. It was unbearably hot. She looked above her, straining her eyes, her nerves stretched to breaking point.

At last she heard something, but so slight she hardly knew if it was the wind. Cadvan’s breath hissed through his teeth. Then, so fast she almost didn’t see it, a huge shape came plummeting down on them from above. It veered briefly into the fire and shrieked, flapping back. Cadvan leaped forward and hewed its neck with his sword, jumping back as it crashed down, spouting black gouts of blood.

Maerad saw with surprise that it wasn’t as big as she had thought: the body was about the size of a goat. But she had no time to look at it, for now the air was full of claws and wings and hissing. One came straight for her; she saw its eyes burning red in the fire. Her dagger was useless, and with a sudden inspiration she dropped it and dragged a burning branch from the fire. She thrust it at the creature, which wheeled away and crashed into the wall. It fell to the ground, its neck broken.

Immediately another came for her, landing on the ground and rearing up to slash her with its claws. She swung the branch around, and her shoulder jarred as she hit it hard. The creature hissed with fury as the flames licked it, and its long neck snaked toward her. Maerad hit it again, and the branch broke. She leaped sideways, grasping another branch, and the wer struck her a glancing blow to the head with its claws. She didn’t feel any pain; her fear was suddenly overcome by a surge of anger. She held the brand in both hands and swung it randomly; the room was so small it was impossible not to hit something. She was aware of Cadvan to her right, slashing and hewing, beset by three of them, and then another three, while others hovered overhead. Maerad kept lashing out, remembering to go for the eyes, and the creatures swung away from the flame, concentrating their attack on Cadvan.

Then one of them landed before her, and to her dismay she saw its outlines blur and soften. At first she thought it a trick of her eyes, but then to her disbelief it began to transform into a man, startlingly white in the darkness. She cried out and thrust a brand in his face. He fell back, but then came for her, his wings melting into his back, his face blank and murderous, a black broadsword in his clawed hand. Maerad ducked the swing of his sword and with all her strength brought the burning branch back as hard as she could against his body. The flames burst into life and licked up his neck, setting his hair on fire. He screamed horribly and fell writhing to the ground, trying to beat out the flames, but they stuck to him like a deadly glue, spreading until he was wholly alight, a screaming torch.

Maerad watched in horror, almost forgetting her danger for a second, but another creature landed and rose on its hind feet and her horror burst again into rage. This time she swiped it with the brand before it could begin to transform. It fell stunned to the ground, which was now slimed and smoking with blood. She stepped forward to bash it again when Cadvan reached past her and slashed off its head. And suddenly the room was still.

They stood together, panting. Maerad sent out her mind to hear if any more wings were coming, but she heard only the night. The room was piled with dead creatures. She gasped, feeling suddenly sick.

Cadvan put more wood on the fire, and then started dragging the corpses out of the door. Maerad stood back, swaying with nausea. The stench of death was overpowering, and she was beginning to tremble. She realized that the branch she was holding was about to burn her hand. She dropped it back on the fire and then, fighting down her desire to vomit, helped Cadvan clear the room of the creatures, casting them out of the doorway and down the hill, although she couldn’t bring herself to touch the one who had burned, the one who was still half a man. At last the room was empty, although it stank of burning flesh and hair and blood. Neither Cadvan nor Maerad felt like sitting down.

“What were they?” she asked at last.

“Wormfilth,” said Cadvan. “Wers can take whatever shape they desire. But they are all evil shapes, mockeries.” He looked at her, smiling grimly. “You did well, although you nearly got me once. A doughty fighter, but somewhat undisciplined.”

Maerad tried to smile back. “Do you think there are more?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I counted nineteen, and I heard about twenty. Maybe one didn’t chance the fire. And it’s not long till dawn now.”

They moved outside and sat down by the doorway, still watchful but too exhausted to speak. Cadvan did not relinquish his vigilance, and Maerad, despite her weariness, watched with him. They heard nothing else that night, and at last the eastern horizon began to lighten and the sun, with unbearable slowness, lifted its rim over the edge of the earth, sending level rays over the forest before them. Maerad thought she had never been so glad to see a new day. She turned to Cadvan and almost laughed. They were not a prepossessing sight: both were smeared and spattered with the foul blood of the wers, and their faces were black with ash.

“Well,” said Cadvan heavily. “We made it.”

THEY did not stop to wash or rest, nor even to eat. Maerad averted her eyes from the pile of corpses at the bottom of the hill. “We should burn them,” said Cadvan. “But we haven’t time. Our only chance is to keep moving.”

Maerad had never felt so tired. The only thing stronger than her exhaustion was her desire to get as far away as possible from that deathly place. They walked steadily on, and she tried to ignore her aching head, smarting from the wound the wer had dealt her, and to concentrate just on keeping moving. She had no idea of a destination. She was beginning to think that Cadvan was made of wire; he betrayed little sign of weariness, while for Maerad walking was becoming a torment without end. Slowly, painfully, they approached a spur of the mountain range and rounded it. As they did, it was as if the land came back to life again. Birds were singing their morning challenges in the low bushes around them, or flickering from branch to branch; and the grasses seemed to tremble with the hidden activities of small animals. An insidious pressure that Maerad hadn’t noticed until now lifted off her breast. A little farther on, a small stream bubbled down the side of a high ridge and collected in a pool bordered by smooth, flat stones. To Maerad’s unutterable relief, Cadvan stopped.

“We’re out of the Landrost,” he said. “The peak no longer overlooks our path. He can do nothing more to us.” He knelt over the pool, splashing water over his head and washing his hands: dried blood and ash swirled out into the water and disappeared. Maerad slumped on the grass nearby, unable for the moment to do anything. It was only three hours after sunrise, but she felt she had lived a whole lifetime since the day before. She was beyond sleep; despite the tiredness of her limbs, her mind was preternaturally alert. For a time she simply listened to the music of the birds and the brook, sounds that entered into her like a balm. By then Cadvan was getting food out of his pack, and she realized with a start how hungry she was.

“We haven’t lost all courtesies, at least not yet,” said Cadvan, glancing up at her. “You must wash first.”

Maerad knelt on the stones and washed the muck off her face and hands. The water was cold and clear. She pulled some dried grasses and, moving with a sudden violent disgust, scrubbed herself as hard as she could, dabbing uselessly at her clothes, which were stiff with filth. Then they sat and ate, Cadvan sniffing the air. Clouds were forming in the east, high dark clouds mounting in the distance. “A storm is coming,” he said. “Which perhaps will help us. We need to cover our tracks. More eyes than the Landrost’s will be wondering what it was that resisted the wers last night, and perhaps will be tracking us. We’re still at least four days from any hope of help, and that’s if all goes well.”

“I don’t know how much farther I can go,” said Maerad. Her hands were trembling.

“Nor do I, Maerad. Will has carried us this far. But I too need rest, and that badly. It would be some joke to win through all these perils, only to drop dead of exhaustion within sight of haven.”

They munched in silence for a time.
I fought the wers, and I wasn’t afraid,
Maerad thought with a kind of grim gladness.
Perhaps now he’ll stop treating me like a child.
Images of the battle flickered randomly through her head, and she saw again the one that had caught fire, the one who had transformed into something like a man, and shuddered.
I killed him.
The statement struck her like fear. She had slaughtered hens and rabbits for the table, thinking nothing of it, and once she had wanted to kill a man, had felt the action stirring in her soul, a black, implacable rage; but never before had she murdered anyone.
It was kill or be killed,
a voice said.
What good would it have done to stand back and let him hack you down?
He
had no doubts.
. . . She knew that was true, but the knowledge didn’t stop a disquiet in her heart, a feeling that, no matter the justification, killing was wrong, that the act had somehow wounded her. Shaking her head to rid herself of her thoughts, she stretched and yawned.

“How I wish there were something else to eat!” she said. Cadvan looked up and smiled.

“Yes, traveling food serves its purpose, but it palls quickly.”

“A roast bird, with roots. And baked apples stuffed with berries and nuts.”

“Mushrooms!” said Cadvan unexpectedly. “Slow fried in butter. I can almost smell them!” He passed her his bottle of herbed water. “Drink some of this. Not too much; my supplies are running low.”

“What is it?” asked Maerad, as she drank.