The Shadow of Malabron (33 page)

“What kind of creature could make marks like this?” Finn asked, crouching to run his hand along one of the gouges.

“Master Strigon made them,” Pendrake said, “when the werefire was upon him. It gave him terrible strength, even as it took his wits.”

Will swallowed hard, remembering how the fiery creature had reached for him before his friends had arrived. The torment that the mage must have gone through…

He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned. It was Rowen.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

He nodded. “How about you?”

“I’m not sure. The visions aren’t as bad any more.” She looked at him with concern. “But you went
through
the werefire. What happened?”

Quickly he told Rowen the story, his face reddening when he got to the part where he’d single-handedly defeated the goblins and ogres.

“I was looking for Jess,” he said. “I really believed she was there…”

He broke off, struck by a sudden realization. The batwing castle, the black knight, the goblins: they had been familiar to him because they were in Goblin Fortress, the video game he’d been playing in the camper van on the way to their new home. The things he had seen in the werefire had come from his own memory.

“What is it?” Rowen said.

“Nothing,” and then something even stranger occurred to him. “While I was in the werefire, I forgot all about the hogmen. I would’ve stayed there, in that imaginary story, but then you appeared. You saved me.”

“What did I do?”

“You called me … names.”

“Names?”

“It doesn’t matter. But it was strange, like I was in a dream and you were trying to wake me up. Like you were more real than anything I was imagining.”

“But I wasn’t really there,” she protested, then gazed at him with a troubled look. “Was I?”

Outside it was morning and some sunlight had managed to pierce through the grey shroud over the city. When they reached the far side of the moat, Freya left them briefly, and returned with a donkey cart lined with straw, as well as a small parade of onlookers.

“Who is that?” one of the townsfolk said, as Finn and Freya lifted the mage into the cart. “Is that one of the mages?”

“It’s Strigon,” someone else cried. “They’ve found one of the Four!”

“Come to my father’s house at noon, Eikin,” Freya said to a tall man in a butcher’s apron. “Bring the other sheriffs of the Watch.”

“If that’s one of the mages, Freya Ragnarsdaughter, you’d better let us have him,” an angry voice shouted, and there were a few murmurs of agreement.

“Who are these strangers?” a woman shouted. “Are they going to slip out of the city with that traitor?”

The man called Eikin stepped forward.

“We will get our answers in good time, friends,” he said in a loud but calm voice that stilled most of the muttering. “Ragnar and his family have always served this city faithfully. Let them go now.”

There were a few more angry remarks and dark looks, but the crowd began to disperse. The companions hurried on again, and without any further encounters they reached the smithy and carried the mage inside the house. Harke met them and Ulla hurried to make a bed ready. Then she came back down to the kitchen, where Will and his friends had gathered with Freya and her father.

“I will make some broth for him, and something for all of you,” she said, and then she caught sight of Will in his filthy clothes. He hoped that she hadn’t caught scent of him, too.

“My dear, what on earth…” she began, and then thought better of it.

“If it’s not too much trouble,” Will said, “I’d really like to take a bath.”

T
HE OTHER SHERIFFS OF THE WATCH
arrived at the blacksmith’s house sooner than expected. Will and his friends stayed in the upstairs room. They had already been seen by too many townsfolk, Pendrake said, and rumours about a band of strangers were no doubt flying thick and fast. He and Ulla tended to the mage, who had not wakened again since collapsing in the keep. Rowen was very tired, and lay down to rest.

When the meeting was over, Harke came upstairs to tell them how things had gone.

“There are reports of the werefire vanishing all over the city,” he said. “And the nightcrawlers have started fleeing. The Watch already drove a pack of blood-hobs out of the city. There is still much anger at the mage, but folk have had a weight lifted from their shoulders. They want to celebrate, not hold a trial. Better that than pounding at my gate, I say.”

“We will gladly leave you to it then, my friend, and be on our way. Strigon spoke of the Needle’s Eye…”

“The high pass in the mountains,” Harke said. “A two-day journey from here, up the valley of the Whitewing.”

“The mages found something there,” Pendrake went on, with a glance at Will. “Something we must find. We need to leave now, all of us except Rowen. She is in no condition for such a journey. Will you look after her, Ragnar, until I return?”

Will was surprised, but said nothing.

“Of course, old friend,” Harke said. “But you can’t set out now. The young folk need rest. And we’re going to hold a samming.”

“What’s that?” Will asked.

“Something left undone for far too long,” the blacksmith said, clapping his hands together and beaming from ear to ear.

Reluctantly Pendrake agreed to go to the samming. They stayed in the blacksmith’s house until evening, when Rowen woke up, insisting that she felt much better, although she still looked pale. Pendrake said nothing about his decision to leave her in Skald, so Will did not mention it either.

Ulla cleaned and mended their clothes, and Freya took Rowen to her room to find her something more “fit for a samming”, as she said. When it was time to go, Rowen was still not ready and so Will and the others set off, agreeing that she and Freya would join them later.

Harke led them to an open square ringed by trees hung with strings of lanterns. The brightly lit space was filled with people, young and old. Children were perched up in the limbs of the trees, older folk sat on benches, but most of the Skaldings were seated on a carpet of thick, soft furs that had been laid down on the stones. Many curious looks were directed at Will and his friends as they arrived.

“Someone asked me whether you and your companions are the new League,” Harke said to Pendrake. “By the Stormrider’s helm, some folk never learn.”

Will and his friends found places to sit on the furs. Large platters of bread and meat and fruit were passed around, and cups were filled with a sweet ruby-coloured juice. They accepted the meal eagerly. As they ate no one spoke, and Will was beginning to wonder if this was as lively as the gathering would be. Then a group of people began to gather on a raised wooden platform, carrying pipes and drums and small, rounded instruments that looked like plump fiddles.

The musicians began to play, slowly and softly at first, but soon the music was running along at a lively pace, and some of the Skaldings got up and began to dance. Some danced alone, stepping lively and clapping their hands, while others linked arms and danced in a ring, whirling faster or slower as the music changed pace.

Someone sat down beside Will and he turned to see that it was Rowen. Her red hair, which she’d worn tied back for much of the journey, now hung thick and full over her shoulders. She was wearing a long green dress set with tiny gleaming stones at collar and wrists. Freya was with her, and she too had changed, into a white gown with red embroidery. Will gaped at them, then recovered and turned his attention back to the dancing.

After a while the musicians took a rest and refreshed themselves with food and drink. Some of the children now grew bold enough to approach Will and the others. They were curious about Shade, and took turns stroking his fur, patting him, and even pulling his ears, a mauling which he bore with admirable patience. When the music began again, the lanterns were dimmed and the tune was now slow, and sad.

“First we dance,” Harke said. “Then we remember.”

An ancient-looking old man with a white beard stood up and began to sing, in a language Will could not understand.

“He’s telling the story of our lost home,” Freya said. “Long ago we Skaldings lived in a far northern land by the sea. A land of foaming rivers, vast pine forests, and snowy mountains where dragons and frost giants dwelled. On winter nights we would look up and see, gleaming among the stars, the citadel of the High Ones, across a shimmering rainbow. The home of the Stormrider, the Thunderer, the Snow Maiden, and their kin. Their story was our story. We thought ourselves powerful like them, and we became proud, and arrogant. Although we already had all we could need, we demanded tribute from weaker folk, in return for our protection. Those who resisted, we conquered. We celebrated our victories in song, and thought ourselves the masters of the world.

“Then a shadow of fever and fear fell upon the land. The rivers dried up, the ice on the mountains melted away, the animals sickened and died. One night there was a mighty storm in the heavens, and after that the citadel of the High Ones was gone. The sky was empty. Our towns and villages fell silent. Tales and songs were forgotten. And then
his
armies came, and with them came those we had conquered, eager for vengeance. They swept our strongest warriors aside like straw. And then we were told there was a new story, and a new power to kneel before.”

The old man bowed his head, as if gathering his strength, and then went on with his song.

“He sings of the few who refused to kneel,” Freya said. “How they escaped and set out in search of a new home, wandering for years through dangerous lands. And how they came at last to these mountains, and they looked up at the moonlit peaks, and it seemed to them that they saw the citadel of the High Ones there, once again. And once more they heard the roar of dragons among the clouds, and the chill of the frost giants on dark winter evenings.”

“You built Skald to be like the citadel of the High Ones,” Rowen said eagerly. “A city across a bridge of light.”

Freya nodded.

“We built the city to remember,” she said sadly. “We remember all that we had, and lost. By joining hands we remember what true strength is.”

As the singer reached the end and fell silent, there were tears in many eyes.

“First we dance, then we remember,” Harke said again, and grinned. “Then we celebrate some more.”

After a few moments the music began again, and now it was louder than ever, and many voices joined in song, until Will’s ears began to throb with the noise.

“We will make a noise this night,” Harke shouted over the din. “A noise that will tell the nightcrawlers their time is over.”

Dancing was the furthest thing from Will’s mind, but then a girl came hurrying towards him from among the dancers and pulled him to his feet. Before he could protest she was whirling him round and round, laughing as he blushed and tried to keep up. As he spun he glanced at his friends and saw their amused faces, especially that of Rowen, whose look went from wide-eyed disbelief to delight at the spectacle before her. Then a young man crossed the carpet of furs and tugged her out among the dancers, too.

The music began to go faster, and the dancers along with it, until they were whirling at dizzying speed. Then they began letting go of their partners. Folk tumbled onto the furs amid a chorus of laughter. Before Will could prepare himself, the girl let go of his hands and he went sprawling, too, his head spinning. He picked himself up, and there was Rowen, also sitting on the furs with a stunned look. They grinned at one another sheepishly, then sat back down to endure the applause and laughter of their friends.

“You dance well, Will Lightfoot,” Shade said. “Now I see how you got your name.” Will looked warily at him, unsure if he was being made fun of.

Ulla danced with the toymaker, and Finn with Freya. Will was surprised to see that Finn was a good dancer. That must be something else the Errantry taught you, he supposed. He also couldn’t help noticing that Finn and Freya looked into each other’s eyes throughout the dance. When they returned to their places they sat close together, and talked in quiet voices.

All at once there was a shout, and hands pointed skyward. Everyone looked up as the music broke off. Will saw Morrigan spiralling towards them out of the blackness beyond the lanterns, turning end over end. As she neared the ground she appeared to gain more control of her flight, and made straight for Pendrake, who caught her in his arms.

She lay there, her wings beating feebly.

The Skaldings began to back away and mutter among themselves.

“The Stormrider’s bird,” someone cried. “A messenger of doom.”

“She is a friend,” the toymaker said loudly. “She did not come from the Stormrider.”

He bent his head close to the raven’s beak. The crowd had fallen silent, and Will was able to hear Morrigan’s whispered clicks and croaks.

“Is she hurt?” Rowen asked anxiously.

“She was keeping watch above,” Pendrake said. “The shrowde attacked her. She’s injured, but I do not think it is severe. She managed to drive her attacker off.”