The Shadow at the Gate (30 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

THE UNFORTUNATE END OF A PAINFUL RIDE

By dusk, Ablendan could go no further that day. The horse seemed fresh enough to continue for many more hours. However, the little man had discovered that his was not a physique suited for riding. What had begun earlier that day as a slight stitch in his side had, as the miles passed, progressed into a searing pain that made him shudder with every jouncing stride. His body was a blur of misery. He had discovered several muscles of whose existence he had been contentedly unaware for so many years, and all of these muscles had conspired to announce their presence in fire and agony. Riding horses, as far as Ablendan was concerned, was for those who detested life and merely wanted another reason to hate it even more.

He slid off the horse and felt his knees begin to fold. He grabbed hold of the bridle.

“A pox on you and all your flea-bitten kin,” he said. The horse ignored him.

“If I could shape-change, then there’d be no need for four-footed, traveling torture chambers such as yourself, eh? One word—just one word, that’s all it would take. A hawk or an eagle or a gull to wing up the coast. Or even a horse. How would you like that? I’d rather be a skunk than a horse.”

The horse blew a sigh that could have been commiseration or disgust, and began to crop the grass.

It was growing dark. The sickle moon gave off only enough light to announce its own form. Ablendan coaxed a fire into life under a tree and then settled down with his back against the trunk to toast some bread. The horse sidled close.

“Go on with you,” said the man. “You’ve done me enough harm this day without stealing my supper as well. I daresay you have designs on this bread and cheese, you wretch, but fair’s fair. I can’t eat grass and you shan’t have any of this.”

But he gave the horse a bite of bread after he staked him by the tree. The horse slobbered appreciatively on his coat.

“With some luck, we’ll be through Hull by nightfall tomorrow, and then most of another day to reach the tower in Thule. Get some sleep, you wretched beast. We’ll both need our strength in the morning.”

Ablendan wrapped himself in a blanket and lay down by the fire.

“If I ever wake,” he said to himself. The coals winked red at him in the dark. “I wish I were back in Hearne in my bed. I’m not suited for the outdoor life. I wish I had a sausage. At any rate, two more days. That isn’t so long. Perhaps the Stone Tower will know what to do? Some of those fellows are as old as the sea. Good gracious—that hawk simply appeared on the sill and began talking. The shadow of the wind. Can you imagine that? It’s like living in a story.”

He fell asleep.

Sometime after midnight, Ablendan woke. The fire was out but he could smell wood smoke in the air. He was cold. A breeze blew by and, in its wake, he heard a faint sound—the careful placement of a foot, or the slow exhalation of someone who has been holding their breath for a long time.

“Who’s there?” he said. He sat up. The horse was an indistinct shape in the darkness, but he could see that it was standing still, head up and staring out into the night.

“Is someone there?”

Abruptly, the breeze shifted and he caught a whiff of something rank, some unclean thing that stank of death and rot. The horse screamed—a strange, bugling shriek of terror—and he saw it rear up. The tether snapped with a twang and then Ablendan heard galloping hooves and the crashing of bushes as the horse blundered off into the darkness. Again, there was quiet except for his own shallow breath and the painful thud of his heart. He struggled to his feet and stood with his back to the tree.

“Show yourself!” he said, trying to speak boldly. His voice came out as a quavering croak. He could see nothing in the night. Thoughts tumbled through his head. What vicious beasts was Hull known for? Ogres? Not in two hundred years. Wolves, perhaps? Yes, of course—wolves! And they did not like fire. His mind stumbled on a word—the second name of fire, which could be used to shape heat and flame. Surely it could be used as a weapon. But what was the stricture that limited its use? He had always been bad with the strictures of use. He could not remember.

He gasped.

A pair of red eyes stared at him from the darkness. Nothing else was visible—only the eyes. They blinked once and came closer, and then he could see the outline of a form. It was a wolf! Relief coursed through him. Just a wolf. Only a wolf. Of course, wolves were bad enough, but at least it wasn’t something else. Something he didn’t understand. But then the creature took another step forward, and he immediately realized it was not a wolf. It was too big and too broad across the head. The width of shoulder was enormous. The foul scent grew stronger.

“What are you?” he said. The second name of fire was useless and dead inside his mind.

The creature lunged for him.

Early that next morning, the soldiers at the main gate of Hearne set about opening up the doors, as they always did before sunrise. The timber holding the gate shut was as big around as a fully grown pine tree. It took two men to turn the gears that ratcheted around and around until the timber was levered up and the doors were free. Most days, only one of the gate doors was opened. One was enough, as they were each a good ten strides across.

“All right, lads,” said Bordeall.

Two of the soldiers hauled on the iron chains bolted into the wood planks that faced the door. It began to swing, grating in complaint. Bordeall frowned.

“Lucan!”

“Sir?” The young lieutenant hurried over.

“Get some grease on those hinges.”

“Yessir.” The lieutenant glanced up at the top hinge. It was a good fifty feet high.

“The enfilade slits in the underside of the arch,” said Bordeall patiently. “Drop one of the men through on a rope. One of the skinnier men.” His eye fell on Arodilac Bridd who, as luck would have it, was leaning drowsily on his spear in the shadow of the arch. He jerked a thumb at the boy. “Him. Use him.”

“Bridd? Yessir,” said the lieutenant happily.

“And have him grease the portcullis gears while he’s at it.”

“But it’s been working fine. Smoother than a—”

“Do it.”

Bordeall turned and stumped toward the tower. The door settled with a booming crash against the inside wall of the arch. People streamed in under the arch and into the city—the poorer traders and peddlers who slept outside the walls rather than pay the prices of the inns. Cart wheels creaked by. A donkey brayed in mutiny at the early hour. The Guardsmen stationed at the far end of the arch stiffened at Bordeall’s approach and saluted.

“Stone and shadow!” said the one closest to him.

“What’s that, soldier?”

“Sorry, sir,” said the man. “I’ve never seen such a large dog before.”

“Dogs are just dogs,” said Bordeall, but he turned to look as well.

“Some more so’n others,” said the soldier under his breath.

Bordeall opened his mouth, about to rebuke him for his impertinence, but then said nothing. Trotting sedately behind a wagon piled with squashes was the dog. It was more than large—it was enormous, near as big as a yearling calf, with a pelt of dirty brown fur.

“Now that’s a dog,” said Bordeall.

The creature turned to gaze at him as if it had heard and understood. The orange eyes were expressionless. It was like looking at a pair of flat stones under the sliding water of a stream. A horseman clattered by between them and the dog was gone.

“Sir,” said the Guardsman. “You want I should go have a word with that farmer there? Tell him be sure an’ keep his beast on a leash?”

“No,” said Bordeall. He tried to recollect if there were laws concerning such things. He could not remember. “I reckon he knows what he’s doing. Must be expensive squashes to warrant a guardian like that.”

“So much for your hound,” said the regent sourly. “I don’t see my horse. I thought you said he had a nose on him to end all? Well, no doubt his nose has brought him back for his breakfast.”

In the stable yard, the regent and a small company of his guests had just settled into their saddles as they were about to set out to tour the more interesting points of the city—interesting, that is, in the regent’s eyes. The dog trotted up to the duke of Mizra’s horse and sat down. He began to pant. A scandalized-looking footman raced around the corner, followed by several small pages. They skidded to a halt at the sight of the regent and his guests. The dog eyed them blandly.

“Er,” said Gifernes, opening and shutting his mouth like a fish. He dismounted from his horse. The dog leaned against his leg and blinked.

“Perhaps,” said the prince of Harth, “your errant horse is long-winded as well as being fleet of hoof. Consider, my lord, such a paragon might run at speed for days, no? I knew it in my heart, as soon as the steed galloped away, that, truly, your stable is the finest in all of Tormay.”

“Was,” said the duke of Dolan.

The regent said nothing to this, but wheeled his horse around and clattered out of the yard. The others followed. The footman hurried across the yard.

“Milord,” he said, bowing to the duke of Mizra. “Would you like me to see after the hound? I did not realize he was yours when he came through the castle gate.”

“Um, no—no, that’s all right. He’ll be fine. You may go.”

“Milord,” said the footman, bowing again. He backed away and then cuffed one of the pages.

“So you couldn’t catch the horse?” said the duke, squatting down. “I’m surprised at you, Holdfast, quite surprised. I thought you a finer hound than this. But what do we have staining your fur? Looks like you found something.”

The dog submitted mutely to his master’s hands as the duke ran his fingers through the hair on the neck of the beast. In places, the fur was matted with a dark, dried substance. It flaked away at the duke’s touch. His youthful face creased in an uncertain frown. He stood up and dusted his hands.

“Stay here,” he said to the dog. “And even if a suckling pig trots up and throws itself onto a platter for you, you’ll do nothing. Stay.”

The dog lumbered into the shade of the stable wall and sat watching the duke ride away. It rested its head on its paws and then fell asleep.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

LENA’S SACRIFICE

For the seventh time, Jute examined the lock. It was an enormous iron thing forged into the bars of the door. He could get his hand and arm through the bars, but it was hopeless after that. He might as well have tried battering at the iron with his bare hands as shift that lock. He did not even have a bit of wire. The Silentman’s men had been thorough, for they were all members of the Guild and there was no trick a boy knew that they did not know as well. The galling thing was that the lock wasn’t even warded. It was just a lock.

He huddled in a corner and tried to think. Light glimmered from somewhere further down the corridor. It was scant, but it was enough to relieve complete darkness into mere darkness. The cell was small. The floor was strewn with old, sour-smelling straw. Stone walls rose around him and over him. There was no window. He had a feeling he was deep underground, for the air was still.

Damn Lena!

She had been a silent little thing the first time he had seen her. The Juggler had brought her to the stables in the back of the Goose and Gold one summer evening, where the children would always gather after a day’s work. They had stopped at the sight of him—wary of his temper, his cruelty, and his hard fists. The girls swinging the skip-rope in the corner froze, the rope falling across the shoulders of the three jumping in the middle. Several boys teasing the old mare with some rotten apples teetered on the fence, eyeing the Juggler across their shoulders. The horse nibbled the apples from their unresisting fingers. The Juggler had a little girl with him. She stumbled as he pushed her forward. His eyes roved around the yard.

“Here,” he had said. “You, Jute. Learn her the tricks. Learn her well or I’ll take a rope to you.”

Lena hadn’t said a word for the first week but just followed him around like a pathetic dog, smiling uncertainly when he had a kind word or a bit of extra food for her and cringing from his frowns and impatience. Picking pockets came easily to her, for she had tiny hands that fluttered as quickly and as gently as butterfly wings. And, in time, she spoke and even smiled. Years ago, that had been—years ago.

Days, she drifted in his wake through the streets, picking pockets and filching from the barrow carts and shops. She would bring her finds to him, more concerned of what he thought than of pleasing the Juggler. Nights, in the cramped rooms jutting off the stable where the children slept, locked in by the Juggler each evening, Lena would always curl up next to Jute, burrowed into an old cloak like a mouse in her nest.

Damn Lena!

Jute sniffled. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve.

I wish I hadn’t gone outside, he thought. I wish I had listened to Severan. To the hawk. Are you there? Not with all this stone overhead. I must be deep underground. I can feel it. I can’t feel the sky. I wish I had never climbed down the wall. Some walls are meant to be stayed within. As long as there’s still sky overhead. I wish I had never met Lena.