The Skeleth (32 page)

“Hold them!” Katherine leapt up onto the wagons and bashed down at a Skeleth with the flat of her blade. “Edmund, hurry! Try again!”

Edmund looked out in horror from his perch atop the pedestal. The Skeleth bunched in between the inn and Jordan's workshop, clambering for holds, getting knocked down by villagers, but then getting up again without seeming to feel the pain of it. Warbur Drake looked much the worse for wear, swaying behind the Skeleth—but not half as bad as Ellí.

“Edmund.” Ellí got to her feet. She met eyes with him. “I'm sorry for what I did. The true me, the real me, liked you very much.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Edmund saw something move through the ruined land beyond the barricade, someone in armor galloping at full tilt up the Longsettle road. He held a sword in one hand. He rushed alone over the broken ground toward Warbur Drake, toward the Skeleth.

With a soreness in his heart, with fear in every part of him, Edmund felt once more for the Signs of Perception and Closing. He moved through the first part of the spell. Please, please work—

Nothing happened.

“My student, consider this your notice of failure.” Warbur Drake's voice came as lightning. “I
CALL ON DEATH—”

Ellí brought her arms in across her chest.
“
I
AM THE HOPE OF LIFE—”

“—
Y
OUR HEART IS STILL—”

Ellí broke; Edmund felt it happen. He felt her command of the Wheels give way, felt her terror, her despair.

Warbur Drake clenched her hand into a fist. She glowered at Ellí with focused hatred.
“
Y
OUR HEART IS STIL
L, IT IS STILL.
S
TILL.”

Ellí fell, pitching backward on the wagon. She looked at Edmund, then at nothing.

Warbur Drake sneered, though blood seeped from the corners of her mouth. “There were plans to make you one of us, Edmund Bale.” She brought up her hands into the Sign of Unmaking. “I deem you not worth the trouble. And now—”

Whatever she had meant to say was never said. With one swift strike of sword, her head rolled to the street, a look of simple surprise frozen on her face. Her body pitched over on top of it.

Lord Harold of Elverain did not pause over his kill, for the Skeleth swarmed and surrounded him. He tried to press forward, but could make no headway against the lunging, slashing creatures on every side. He wheeled his horse and retreated along the road. “Katherine!” The rest of his words were lost amidst the clamor of the battle.

“Hold them, hold them back!” Katherine leapt and dodged from spar to spar, smacking and swinging. “Edmund, hurry!”

The Skeleth, free of the will that had guided them, seemed to rage with redoubled fury. First the poles were ripped from the hands of the villagers, then some folk were pulled off the barricades, and then, with a rending crack, the joins of the spars and beams began to give way. There was barely time for Katherine and the others to leap back from the wagons. She
tried to regroup them for a stand in front of the statue—then the first of the Skeleth came through.

Katherine wavered, sword shaking in her hand. “Papa.”

John Marshal leapt through the gap in the barricade. Poor Wat Cooper could not move fast enough—John's sword plunged into him before there was even time to shout a warning. Wat dropped, spouting blood, and John stepped over him, coming straight for the crowd of villagers surrounding Edmund, as though two dozen folk against him were even odds, or better.

“No! You will not have them!” Katherine leapt forward and met her father, blade on blade, but John had all the strength of his youth returned to him, with all his wits and experience, speed and skill—and none of Katherine's fear. She gave ground, inch by inch, back toward the villagers. The other Skeleth pushed through the barricade and swarmed out in a half circle, pushing in toward their shrinking, frightened knot.

“We've got to run!” Edmund's father threw down his pole. “We can't win this—run!”

Edmund would have said the same, but he knew that running would not save them. Instead he took up his father's pole and made ready to leap into the fray. He wondered whether it was worse to die by the hand of a Skeleth, or to kill and become one of their number. No matter—he would soon find out.

Katherine staggered and fell to the ground, then leapt up again, just before her father could finish her off. “You will not have them!” The Skeleth that had once been Jordan Dyer came up out of the river and joined the rest of its kind in a tightening noose around the villagers.

Edmund grabbed Geoffrey by the arm, then embraced him.

“You tried,” said Geoffrey. Their mother found them and held them both.

All was lost.

Then a figure stepped out from the edge of the square—tall and rawbone thin. He placed himself in between John Marshal and Katherine.

Edmund stared, too stunned at first to understand what he saw, or how he could be seeing it.

“Put down your sword, Katherine.” Tom bore no weapons. He stood before the creature that was John Marshal, without defense and without fear. The creature raised its blade to strike him down—and stopped, locked in his gaze.

“Katherine, look upon your father,” said Tom. “Trust him. Put down your sword, look upon him, and tell him that you love him.”

A file of peasant women leapt down from a collection of shaggy mules and draft horses and followed Tom into the open, passing out from the trail that led around the village green. They stood in a line before the Skeleth, each one seeking a particular creature. The Skeleth halted their advance and stood staring still.

“Papa.” Katherine let her sword fall to the earth. She took Tom's hand and stood beside him, faced toward her father. “Papa, I love you. Wake up.”

John Marshal lowered his sword. The feelers around him grasped and whipped, but inside them, a flicker of understanding crossed his face.

The words of the riddle came back as a blaze in Edmund's mind. He wanted to laugh. “Of course. It's so simple.”

I am the weapon that wounds the wielder.
Love sometimes injures he who loves. Edmund knew that quite well indeed, and yet he knew that love was worth it, all the same.

I am the defense that is no defense at all.
The love that comes with defenses and conditions is not truly love.

I am triumph in surrender.
Love cannot be taken. It can only be given.

I am that which, by being given, is gained.
If you give love, you have not lost it. The one you love has received it, but you still have it within you.

“Are you Edmund Bale?”

Edmund turned. “What? Yes.”

A heavy young woman in a rusty-red housedress and a tall old man carried an odd-looking metal box between them, carved with ancient glyphs and with a handle made from the joined hands of three female figures. They set it down in front of Edmund and raised the lid, showing it to be empty inside. “You'll want this.”

The Skeleth advanced in silent ranks, their weapons dangling in their hands. The newcomers—peasants, all of them—flinched but did not break.

“Father,” said a girl.

“Brother,” said a woman.

Another: “Son.”

“Master Marshal,” said Tom.

“Papa.” Katherine raised her hands. “Papa, it's me. I love you, Papa. I love you.”

The faces of the men inside the monsters came alive. The glowing creatures ripped free of their bodies, they seethed and
ran into a swirling, angry ball, and as they did so, the hateful character of the Skeleth grew plain for all to see. The Skeleth howled, all together, a coursing vomit of hate. They spat their spite for the world of the sun, the world above, the world where men held sway. Edmund knew just what the box was for.

The tall old man had blind, white eyes, but he still managed to tap Edmund's shoulder. “Now. Your spell.”

“
Y
OU-
W
HO-
C
RAWL-
B
ELOW,
I
NAME YOU,
I
GRIP YOU
.” Edmund raised his hands in the Sign of Perception.
“
I
SHUT YO
U FROM THE SUN,
I
SHU
T YOU FROM THE AIR,
I
CAST YOU DOWN INTO THE PRISON MADE FO
R YOU.”
He made the Sign of Closing.
“
Y
OU ARE CONF
INED.”

The howl nearly popped his ears. Everyone, every living man, woman and child in the square fell to the ground at the thunderclap cry of the Skeleth. Edmund fell with them, but with a heavy effort dragged himself up again, and when the last squealing feeler fell into the box, he slammed the lid hard shut.

The sun rose over the moors.

Edmund lay heaving, draped over the top of the box. The metal felt warm beneath him for a moment—it shuddered, then fell still and cool. Voices swirled up around him, the wild and fulsome noise of mingled sorrow and relief. He felt the terrible cost of the spell take hold in the deepest part of himself. He paid it gladly.

“I am a monster.” John Marshal wept slow and hard. “I saw it all. All of it. I am a monster.”

“No, Papa.” Katherine held him. “You're not.”

The other strangers reached out for the men that once were
Skeleth, holding them through a storm of remorse, the horror of waking from a nightmare to find it had all been true. The big young woman in the rusty-red housedress only just stopped a man running out onto the bridge to leap off it and kill himself. She held him tight and let him wail until he fell into a trembling quiet.

Edmund let himself droop in rest over the top of the box. If anything else should threaten his village that day, he had nothing left with which to stop it. He fell in and out of a dream. He could feel no more joy—too much had been lost. He wished that someone would take thought to go up to Ellí and close her eyes, her beautiful brown eyes.

A shadow fell across him, a long, thin shadow from the new sun of the day. The shadow stooped, reached down, and took him up.

“I knew you could do it,” said Tom. “I have always believed in you.”

T
he guardsman struck the butt of his spear to the ground. “The lord Tristan of Harthingdale!”

Tom placed his hand at Tristan's elbow. “By your leave, my lord.”

They proceeded into the hall of Harold, Lord of Elverain. The fire in the great arched hearth blazed up tall, keeping the autumn draft outside. The tapestries on the walls displayed their ancient deeds of stern valor, but to Tom they seemed made for the moment, hung in celebration of bravery rewarded and hope renewed.

Harry stood from his great chair at the high table, surrounded by his knights, his councilors and clerks. He raised a hand bedecked with silver rings. “My lord Tristan, I welcome you to my home, to feast and council.” His men gave way to allow Tristan's passage to the chair at his left hand.

Tom drew back the chair for Tristan. Harry's bright eyes fixed on him. “Ah, yes—Tom, is it? We in Elverain are very
much in your debt.” He shifted the heavy chain of office that he wore around his neck, and looked lost for what to say next. “Are you now my lord Tristan's servant? You may wait on him at the high table, if you wish.”

Lord Tristan chuckled. “Young Tom here has other matters to which he must attend.” He tapped Tom's arm. “Off you go.”

Tom bowed before them both. “My lords.” He stepped lightly down from the high table, slipping through ranks of attendants and servants busy setting up what looked to be the very finest of feasts. He found his place in the corner, far away from the crush, where a boy and a girl waited for him, his two dearest friends in all the world.

“So.” Edmund shifted over to give Tom space on the bench. “Now what?”

“Now? Now we eat.” Katherine handed Tom a trencher of bread stacked high with salt pork. Tom needed no further prompting.

“I mean what happens now?” Edmund passed Tom a bowl of lentil pottage. “What about Wolland, what about the other wizards Katherine heard about, the ones throwing kingdoms down far away? And what about . . .” He trailed away. The firelight threw shadows that seemed to tower over him, to menace him and him alone.

Worry clouded Katherine's eyes. She leaned across the table, gazing upon Edmund, but could not seem to find words. Then she glanced aside, up the hall at Harry—and then, back at Edmund. Her brows lowered, her gaze darkened, and she did not answer Tom's questioning look.

The guardsman struck his spear again. “Isembard of
Garafraxa, Earl of Quentara. Make way!” Then, after a pause: “And make way for Thulina Drake, Revered Elder of the
Ahidhan
!”

“Lookie here, Tom.” Lord Isembard seemed to care little for proper form, for he veered aside from the center aisle of the hall as soon as he entered. “Got someone for you.”

Jumble landed on Tom but an instant later, springing into his lap in a burst of thorough glee. After he was done snuffling Tom up and down, he started on Edmund, and after a few giggling dodges Edmund started to look like himself again.

“Dogs have much to teach us.” The Elder leaned in at the table, braced upon her walking stick. “Ah—this can only be Katherine Marshal and Edmund Bale.”

Edmund and Katherine stood up to bow and curtsy. The Elder waved them down again.

“Just as I pictured them.” She smiled at Tom, touched his shoulder, then hobbled onward down the aisle.

“Lord Isembard—Revered One.” Harry coughed from the high table. “Will you attend our feast? We have much to discuss.”

“Coming, my lord Harold, coming, in our best time.” Lord Isembard offered his arm to the Elder. “We are not all so young as you.”

Edmund turned to watch them go. “This will be a bit thorny for Harry. He did kill her sister, after all.”

The folk at the high table fell into council, while those below fell to feasting. A file of folk hailed Tom and his friends, passing in clumps and packs throughout the feast. Nicky Bird slapped Tom's side, Bella Cooper pressed his hands, and even
Edmund's father greeted him with solemn respect. Miles Twintree brought them a mug of sweet, spiced cider; Emma Russet brought them each a necklace she had made herself, each a different colored stone on a leather loop. Tom and Edmund took theirs at once, and each accepted a kiss on the cheek. Katherine already wore a necklace, one made of silver studded with real gems, but after a moment's hesitation she took it off and wore Emma's. Others came in their turns; Tom introduced his friends to Rahilda Redfield, then to her husband, Donston, and her sister Melicent. He found himself forced to tell the story of his retaking of Tristan's castle, with Melicent acting out the best parts in the aisles beside him. No one lingered long, though, not even Geoffrey. Everyone seemed to know that the three friends wanted themselves to themselves that night.

“Now, I think, we rest while we can.” Tom poured out mugs of sweet cider for his friends, then for himself. “Now, I think, we feel sad for what we lost, but we don't let that make us forget the good that we have done.”

Katherine thunked her mug against his. She looked to Edmund, who joined them after a moment's hesitation.

Edmund drank deeply. “If that was what we could do when we're apart, just think of what we can do when we're all together.”

Tom felt the hackles on the back of his neck stand up. He turned around and saw his old master glaring at him from across the hall. Athelstan pointed at Tom and clenched his fist.

Katherine's eyes flashed dark. She stood up and looked ready to go right across the hall at Athelstan, but Tom held her back.

“Let it be,” he said. “Let it be, for now.”

Edmund flicked a disdainful glance across at Athelstan, then smirked at Tom. “You're friends with some important folk now. Let's see old Athelstan go up against Tristan, Isembard and the Elder all together.”

“Never mind them,” said Tom. “Let's see him try to get past Rahilda.”

Lord Tristan's voice rose above the clamor in the hall. “With a glad heart will I aid you.” He turned to Harry. “What wisdom I have, and what power remains to me, is yours in friendship.”

Isembard clapped his hands. “Then so be it. We lords of north and west will stick as one!”

Tom lost what was said next at the high table amidst the cheers. “That sounds good.”

“It is good,” said Katherine. “If Harry works with Tristan, they'll have no trouble securing everything west of the Tamber until spring.”

Edmund seemed to have gotten back his appetite. He plucked up the same piece of mutton as Tom, so they ripped it in half between them.

“I can't imagine Wolland staying long on the moors,” said Katherine. “There's been no more sign of his army—they're likely on the way home already. All we have to do is watch the river, rebuild our strength, and wait out the winter. Come spring, I bet the king will march north, and woe to Wolland then.”

There came another cheer—Nicky and Horsa started up on flute and fiddle, and even Lady Isabeau, seated at her son's side, seemed to warm at the sound of it.

“Child.” John Marshal stopped at their table. “Are you enjoying the feast?”

Katherine turned at once, worry in her eyes again. “Are you, Papa?”

“I've just been in the stables.” John's body bore no wounds, yet to Tom he still looked injured. “I think Indigo was pleased to see me, though it is always hard to tell with that horse.” Jumble was happy to see him, though—that was not hard to tell at all.

John rubbed Jumble under the chin. “You took good care of Tom, did you not? Good lad.” Jumble barked and licked his nose.

Edmund fidgeted, bit his lip, then spoke. “Master Marshal, I've been looking through everything I can find about the Skeleth, and you must know that there was nothing you could have done, nothing that—”

John held up a hand. “Let us speak of that another day.” He looked at each of them in turn. “Again I have the happy duty to tell you, all three, how well you have done, how proud you have made me. Katherine—Tom, Edmund, look at me. You saved the north.”

Tom had not thought of it like that. From the looks on the faces of his friends, neither had they.

“Other folk helped, but it was you three,” said John. “Three children thwarted the plots of lord and wizard, of the Nethergrim itself—again. Let our enemies chew on that for a while.”

Katherine reached across the table. She took Tom's hand, then Edmund's.

“Now, I'll leave you three to your feast. I have business with an old friend.” John Marshal strode up through the aisles,
crossed behind the high table and tapped Lord Tristan on the arm.

Evening slipped inside and found itself a welcome guest. The glow of fire and food melded and made joy. Tom looked from Edmund to Katherine. Whatever worried them, whatever they feared, John Marshal's words would not let them fall to fretting.

The guardsman's spear banged the floor again.

“Now, who can that be?” Harry looked up from a shared joke with Tristan.

“I cannot think who it might be, my lord.” Lord Isembard drained his goblet. “All the good and loyal lords of the north are already here!”

Harry waved a hand, still laughing. “We want no more lords! Away, away!”

“Er, it is not a lord, saving your pardon.” The guardsman bowed his way into the hall. A man followed him in, a man who looked thoroughly confused at the merriment he saw around him. He passed behind Tom's back—he smelled of horse sweat and did not look as though he had slept in some time. He wore warm clothes made for traveling, and upon his breast there shone a brooch—a hunting hound trampling the antler of a stag.

Edmund leaned across the table. “Who's that?”

“King's messenger,” said Katherine. “He looks like he's been riding hard.”

Harry stood, and called for silence. He gestured to the messenger. “You are welcome here. What news do you bring?”

The messenger stopped in the middle of the hall. He looked about him at the feast, frozen in suspense, waiting on his word. Tom caught a flicker of remorse on his face.

“Come, then,” said Harry. “Out with it.”

“My lord.” The messenger turned back to the high table. He drew a breath, then coughed, then spoke:

“The king is
dead.”