The Shadow at the Gate (49 page)

The wihht opened its hands. No one could look away. A great horror fell on the room, for in the thing’s hands was a spot of darkness darker than night. It was an absence of anything that was. It was a hole that sucked in light and life. The air, cold as it was, became even colder. Ice crackled on the walls. The room trembled. Jute looked up from below. His teeth chattered with the cold. The walls seemed to stretch. Jute was no longer sure which direction was up and which was down. He had the horrible feeling he was about fall up.

Things slipped and began to slide. Rocks in the walls quivered. Some shattered and flayed the air with shards that flew toward the wihht’s hands to vanish in the darkness. The shadow creatures bent and swayed and then whirled away like leaves blown by the wind.

The wind tore at the room. It ripped at the air. It howled against the stones. There was nothing of the sky in it, no cleanness, no cool emptiness to be drunk like water. The wind stank of darkness and death. It was hungry and it could never be filled. Gerade stumbled across the floor, bent over and blind. The wind threw him staggering toward the wihht. He managed one inarticulate shriek, and then he was gone. The hawk beat his way through the air. His wings seemed to blur in the wind, but he could not gain ground. The darkness reached out for the bird. The blot swelled within the wihht’s hands, larger and larger, until it towered high overhead.

Ronan was tossed by the wind, his limbs flailing helpless. But he retained his grip on his sword and that proved his salvation. As he slid across the floor, his sword under him scraping and sparking against the stony floor, a stone loosened and whipped away. And into that hole Ronan’s sword hilt jammed. He hung on grimly and tried to right himself, to crawl back around. There was Severan, not ten yards away, wedged in the opening of the well, with ice forming on his hands and in his hair.

Ronan looked back. The darkness had grown at such a rate that there were no walls anymore. At least, no walls he could see. He could look through the darkness. It was a hole. A door. It opened into a night sky scattered with stars that did not shine but were only solitary pinpricks of dead light. Something was behind the darkness. Something so huge that the sky was the shadow it cast. Ronan could see it now—at least he thought he saw an outline. Just a hint. It was a suggestion of stone walls reaching up. Higher than the sky. The dark sky loomed overhead. The mosaic was gone. And with a certainty that froze his blood to ice, Ronan somehow knew somewhere in that endless wall was a window. Behind that window stood someone. Something. It was watching him. Had been watching him.

For years.

Dimly, he was aware of the wihht stepping closer.

“I will bring you to him, man,” said the wihht.

The darkness was complete.

Nearly.

Behind him, Ronan heard someone say something. A single word. Repeated over and over again. The voice was weak at first but grew stronger with each repetition.

“
Leoma. Leoma. Leoma
.”

And then, a shout.

“
Leoma
!”

Light blinded Ronan. It tore at his senses with heat and the absence of everything except light. It was worse than staring at the sun. The light was there even when he shut his eyes. Someone shrieked in fury. The wihht. But the shriek was lost in a sudden, shattering noise. It sounded as if every window in the city of Hearne had broken at the same time. Right above his head, light rained down. Shards of light. A thousand thousands of tiny stars. The room was washed in light and there was no longer any hole into the strange sky, no longer any wind, no longer any darkness. Ronan could not see the wihht. He found he could stand. One of the stars brushed against his arm. It was as hot as an ember. But he saw now what it was, for the light was dimming down. It was a small bit of stone, perfectly square and flat. He looked up at the ceiling. The mosaic was gone.

“Hurry!”

It was Severan. He was crouched beside the well.

“Hurry, man!”

“You destroyed the mosaic?” said Ronan.

The old man winced.

“It was already being destroyed. It was never intended to portray the darkness the way it was forced to this night. That was not a simple depiction. That was the true darkness— ”

“Hush.” The hawk settled onto the stones with a flurry of wings. “The creature stirs.” Across the room, by the stairs, a dark form moved. Countless tiny stones twinkled on the floor, but the light was fading fast.

“Down the well,” said Severan. “Both of you, now!”

But the hawk had already dove down the well before he finished speaking. Ronan scrambled over the side of the well, hung there for a moment, and then dropped. He fell through the darkness and then plunged down into water. He could not feel the bottom with his feet.

“Up here.”

The light was dim but he made out Jute huddled on a ledge beside the water. The hawk crouched on his shoulder. Ronan hoisted himself up.

“Good thing it isn’t as tight as a chimney,” said Jute, scowling. “You wouldn’t have fit down then.”

“Hush,” said the hawk.

A splash swamped all three of them. Severan bobbed in the water.

“Help!” he gasped. “Quickly now!”

Ronan yanked him out of the water.

“Hurry!” said Severan. “Is the passage—?”

“Give us some light,” interrupted the hawk.

Severan muttered something, and a wisp of flame guttered into life in his hand. The flame reflected on the surface of the water and in Severan’s eyes. The old man’s face looked gaunt.

“Where’s the passage?” he said. “We haven’t a moment to lose.”

“Behind you,” said the hawk.

There in the wall was a hole. It was only distinguishable from the shadows in that it was darker. Severan stooped down and crawled into the hole. The others followed behind.

“What did you do?” said Jute. “Where’s—where’s—?”

“He’s gone,” said Ronan.

Severan did not answer but only increased his pace. After a few minutes, the passage widened abruptly and they were able to stand. The air smelled of dust. Even though the flame cupped in Severan’s hand was small, there was enough light to see stone walls and a roughly hewn floor. The old man stumbled and would have fallen if Ronan had not caught his arm.

“Mustn’t stop,” gasped Severan.

“Haste,” urged the hawk. His claws bit into Jute’s shoulder. “Do you hear the stones? It is the noise of rock considering its own destruction. Your diligence, old man, may prove to bury us all. What word did you use?”

They all ran, stumbling together, through the passage.

“I didn’t realize,” gasped the old man. “I kept that word in my mind for fourteen years without speaking it.”

But that was all he had time to say. The flame in Severan’s hand flickered. Dust stirred around them. Then the light abruptly went out. The wind hit them like a hammer blow. Jute tumbled through the darkness, arms and legs windmilling. He slammed into a body. Something struck his head, and then the world went black.

Wake.

Let me sleep. It’s comfortable here.

The hawk sighed inside Jute’s mind.

Sleeping on cold stone? Strange tastes for one such as you. You are a ragged thief no longer.

Let me sleep.

Wake.

Jute opened his eyes. His head ached. He couldn’t see anything. He experimented with closing his eyes and then opening them to see if there was any change. Nothing. He couldn’t see a thing. Feathers brushed his arm and he almost screamed out loud.

Do you hear?

Hear what? I hear nothing. Except my own heart.

Listen.

Jute held his breath and listened, straining his ears. The hawk pressed against his arm but did not move. At first, there was only a dreadful silence, but then Jute heard it.

Something is digging!

Yes. The wihht.

A scratching noise came from far above them in the darkness. It was a quiet sound, as if muffled by distance and stone, but it was the busy, feverish sound of someone scrabbling and tearing at rock.

It hungers.

Stones clinked in the darkness. Someone groaned. It was Ronan.

“This has been the second worst day of my life.”

The man subsided into silence, and then something rustled. Flint rasped on flint. A spark flared. The darkness retreated and Jute shut his eyes.

“The boy’s all right, that’s something.” There was a pause, and then, “You didn’t have to bring the whole university down, did you?”

“I didn’t.”

The flame flickered in Ronan’s hand. His face was gray with dust. The light shone on a bloody gash on Severan’s forehead.

“I didn’t bring the whole university down,” said the old man stiffly. “If I had, then we wouldn’t be having this conversation, as we’re still underneath the university. Underneath the east wing, if I’m not mistaken.”

“You brought down more than enough.”

Ronan raised his hand and the burning tinder revealed the tunnel behind them. It was choked with rubble. Dust hung in the air.

“Here, I’ll bring up some more light,” said Severan.

“No you don’t,” said Ronan. “I’ve had enough wizardry for the day.”

“Ronan’s right for reasons he doesn’t know,” said the hawk. He ruffled his wings, and dust rose around the bird in a cloud. “Have care to keep your words to yourself, old man, for once you’re outside the safeguards of the university, such use will garner unwanted attention. Listen. Be still for a moment and listen, for we will soon not be alone here.”

“Digging,” said Ronan after a moment. “Someone’s digging.”

“I don’t hear anything,” said Severan, frowning.

“It’s the wihht and those shadows.” The hawk hopped onto a fallen timber. “Come. We must be gone before they find their way down.”

They went quickly, each with a length of wood guttering flame and each with a prickling at the back of their necks as if something was creeping along behind them in the darkness. Ronan led the way, for Severan declared himself confused by the twists and turns of the passage and the openings branching off here and there.

“I’ve read of these tunnels,” Severan said, staring into one such opening. “They’re mentioned in writings in the archives, but I don’t remember any of them having adequately conveyed the sheer, the sheer—”

“They go on and on,” said Jute.

“Yes,” said Severan. “Strange, how the reality doesn’t measure up to the written word. Perplexing.”

The tunnels looked old. Older than any of the buildings in the city of Hearne itself, which was of interest to Severan, for, as he remarked, portions of the city supposedly dated back to its founding centuries ago.

“How odd,” he said, as they paused in a small room formed by the intersection of three tunnels. Ronan advanced several yards into each tunnel and then retreated back to the room. “This style of carving predates the oldest known carvings in this city—the foundations of the regent’s castle are what I refer to. As you know, the current castle was built after the old castle was destroyed in the wizards’ war. You see here? This oak tree alternated with the boat? You’ll find a similar version in the castle foundation. There, however—”

“Hush,” said Ronan.

“You needn’t be rude,” said the older man. “I was merely—”

“I need to listen.”

Ronan crouched down in the tunnel that they had just come from, his ear pressed to the ground. He was motionless for several seconds and then sprang to his feet, his face grim.

“What—?”

“Be quiet, please.”

Ronan strode into the opening of one of the three tunnels that lay before them. He closed his eyes and turned his face slowly from side to side. He repeated this in the other two tunnels and then shook his head in disgust.

“What is it?”

“That heap of stones you pulled down is still holding them, but not for long. They’ll be through soon enough, and I think those shadow creatures can run much faster than you, old man.”

“They’re fast,” said Jute. He thought of being chased through the streets and across the rooftops, and he shivered.

“Then let’s go. Let’s go!” said Severan. The torch in his hand trembled. “I don’t fear the shadows, but I fear the wihht.”

“I don’t know which tunnel should be ours,” said Ronan. “Three tunnels. I’m blind here. I’ve tracked foxes to their lairs, the serpent on the rock, even a hawk across the sky. But here—no one’s passed this way in over two hundred years, I warrant, and there’s no trail here.”

The hawk stirred on Jute’s shoulder.

“I doubt,” said the bird, “whether you have ever followed the sign of my kin. Even the Farrows cannot lay claim to the sky.”

“Let’s choose a tunnel and be on our way,” said Severan. “Even a poorly chosen path is better than waiting for death. The first tunnel looks just as ill-favored as the other two. Let’s choose it and see where it brings us. Perhaps we’ll have the luck to fall down a bottomless hole? Rather that than the wihht.”