The Tree of Story (47 page)

The main body of the defending army had stood in silent wonder as these marvels unfolded. Now they rallied and came up at a near-run to meet the thousands of fetches that had made it past the ship and were still advancing on the city. And then warnings were shouted because there was another threat. The Nightbane had taken advantage of the tumult and confusion and were now pouring across the stream to join the fetch host.

Freya picked herself up from where she had fallen when the ship had descended. She didn’t know who these new defenders were, but she knew that Finn Madoc had been on board the ship and that he was close to death. Her only
thought now was to find him and help him get away from the battle before it swept over him.

She plunged into the heat and smoke that billowed from the burning ship, her eyes stung to tears, and men rushed past her, eyeing her and her pale, gleaming sword in wonder.

Then she saw him. He was stumbling away from the ship, being helped by a tall mordog whose savage-looking head was streaming with blood. She shouted his name and he glanced up, straining to see who had called to him out of the noise and smoke. But then the fetches were there, and they swept between her and Finn and she could no longer see him.

She lunged, cutting through the legs of the nearest fetch, and it toppled before her with a clang. But another was in her way, and another, a wall of them, and for each that she split open, more appeared and blocked her way. She fought without anger or fear. Her blood was still cold with the dragon’s touch. She would not lose another of her friends. Not if she had the power to save him.

She was surrounded now, hacking and slashing with the icy blade, but the iron shapes were pummelling her, shouldering past her, and soon she was stumbling back and losing her balance. She would fall and be crushed beneath them.

Then the world went still. Her arm was raised, the sword ready to strike one last time, but there was nothing to strike at.

All around her the fetches had drawn to a halt. There was no sound. The light had dimmed, as if evening had suddenly fallen.

She looked down and saw that a fine, delicate thread of gold was winding over the dark, trampled earth. And whatever the thread touched—stone or blade, the iron feet of the fetches, even herself—was illuminated from within so that other threads could be seen, uncountable threads, dark and light and every shade in between.

In that instant Freya understood what she was seeing. These were the threads of all their stories. Of friend and foe, of everyone who had been drawn here into the madness of war. The vision lasted only a moment. The golden light faded and the threads vanished. But Freya knew that everyone on the battlefield had shared her vision. They had seen what she had: that their many stories had been woven into one, an ancient tale that held them spellbound. They were as much its puppets as were these mindless fetches. But they had seen a new path that was open to them now. A way to freedom.

But would they take it? In the next instant the world was plunged again into noise and chaos. There were shouts and screams and the clash of arms all around her.…

The vision lasted only a moment, and then the golden light dimmed and vanished. The threads were nowhere to be seen, but Freya was certain they were still there, still everywhere, and that somehow, because she knew this, nothing would ever be the same.

Then Freya looked up and saw that the armoured fetches had turned about. They were marching now toward the Nightbane host, which was retreating in stunned disorder.

Freya looked down at the ice sword in her hand. It was melting now, the water trickling over her arm and spilling onto the earth. The dragon’s heart was leaving her.

It was as if every last shred of her strength was gone, too. She dropped to the ground. The last thing she saw was the fetch host surrounding the Nightbane like a swiftly closing ring of dark metal.

26

P
ENDRAKE STEPPED FROM THE
raincabinet and halted, leaning on his staff to catch his breath.

He was back in his own house. And yet it was no longer his own.

He struggled to collect his thoughts, to remember how he’d gotten here. The harrowers had taken him from the hollow, from Rowen. They’d brought him swiftly over the bleak miles of the Shadow Realm, and then he found himself alone in a bare, rocky place under a clouded sky. Whether he was back in his own realm or not he had no idea. He’d wandered then, for three days and nights, drinking from the thin rivulets of water that trickled down from the rocks. Within the staff he felt a faint power that sustained him, and guessed that Rowen had somehow placed it there.

And then there was a path under his feet. Just a faint
track in the dirt, but he understood that it was meant for him, and that Rowen had done this as well. And so he followed the path and time had fallen away, and then he was here, in the toyshop. He had been gone only a few days but it seemed a lifetime.

He faltered then at the thought of his granddaughter left behind in that terrible place. He would return. He would find her, and Will and Morrigan. But he knew Rowen had remained behind to give him this chance to end what should never have begun.

At the far end of the hallway was where his own workshop had stood, but there was no workshop anymore. The stone walls came to an end at a gaping hole ringed with green fire.

He walked softly down the corridor, peering in each doorway and finding the rooms vacant and the walls blackened, as if they had been emptied by a great burning. He reached the hole in the wall and passed through it into what remained of his workshop, a jagged semicircle of stone floor, a few of his books scattered on it, his worktable chair fallen on its side, needles of glass lying everywhere. Beyond the edge of the broken floor there was nothing to be seen but a boiling churn of werefire, rising into hideous, grotesque shapes and faces that darted toward him then fell away again and were replaced by others just as ghastly.

Beyond the edge, a huge stone chair hung in space, anchored there by no visible means. In the chair sat Ammon Brax. He wore long robes of gleaming white, like a sage of ancient time. The green fire played about his long dark hair and his shoulders.

“The real Nicholas Pendrake has found his way home,” Brax said.

“Someone else found the way for me,” Pendrake said sadly.

“Where is your clever granddaughter, Nicholas? And her friends?”

“Someplace no one should ever have to go. I will be returning there when I have finished what must be done here. Fable is not yours to rule, Ammon.”

“This city needs me,” Brax said. “The Realm needs me. My power sustains us all now. If I fall, everything falls.”

“The threat to Fable is no more. I know you can sense that as well as I can. It is time to use what power we have to heal and restore, not to destroy or take what isn’t ours. Just let it go, Ammon. Before it consumes you. Let the fire return to where it belongs.”

“Like you, old man? You hid the power away, refused to share it with anyone. You hoarded it here all this time, and what good did it bring you? Think of what you could have accomplished … Now it’s up to me to do what you would not dare. Those armies waiting out there for another chance to hack and maim and kill will be mine. I will command, where you hid and let others fight for you. I will lead my host to the gates of
his
realm, and he will kneel and set his crown at my feet.” He raised a trembling hand. “All I have to do is reach out this hand and it will be mine.”

“Then do it, Ammon,” Pendrake said. “Use the fire to take those armies for yourself. Take them and crush anyone who dares oppose you.”

Brax faltered. He gazed at his hand, at the pale flames rippling over it, then at the Loremaster.

“Why are you hesitating, Ammon?” Pendrake said softly. “You have the power now. All the power you ever hoped for. Stretch out your hand and finish what you’ve begun.”

A spasm of fear mingled with rage flickered across Brax’s face.

“You know what will happen, don’t you?” Pendrake said.
“The werefire takes from the one who wields it. If you do harm with it, it harms you. It’s already taking your mind, and before long it will take everything that you are.”

“All I wanted was to serve you and learn from you,” Brax said, his voice hoarse with reproach and pain. “You could have invited me into your confidence, old man. You could have shared what you knew. If you had trusted me, warned me about the fire, showed me patiently how to tame it, I could have followed in your footsteps. But you turned your back on me. You left me with nothing.” He rose from the chair and stood in empty space, the werefire blazing over his head like a poisonous halo. “Everything I’ve ever gained I had to tear from someone else’s grasp, including this.
You
did this to me.”

“I failed you, Ammon, and I am sorry for that,” Pendrake said, putting out a hand. “But now you know the truth of the fire, and that is the beginning of wisdom. It’s not too late—for either of us. There is another way. Let me help you find it.”

The mage stood motionless with his arms at his sides. Then slowly he began to descend, as if he were walking down an invisible flight of steps. And now Pendrake could see the faint ribbons of flame under the mage’s feet, shaping themselves into ghostly steps and bearing him as he descended.

“Help me, Master Nicholas,” he said in a hollow voice. “I … cannot control it anymore. Don’t let it take me.”

When he was only a few steps above Pendrake, the mage’s fear-stricken face suddenly changed. A cold gleam came into his eyes as they flicked to something behind the Loremaster.

Pendrake caught the movement and turned, but too late. A huge dark shape sprang from the shadows and struck him violently to the ground. The staff clattered to the stones.

Flitch stood over the Loremaster, his rotting fangs bared like a beast’s. He seemed to have grown even larger and
more malevolent, as if the fire had gone on changing him along with everything else in the toyshop.

Hodge had followed his brother. He stood apart from him, his hands knotted together. He looked sick and afraid.

Pendrake raised his head and struggled to rise. Flitch’s booted foot pushed him back down onto the floor.

“You can do this for yourself, Ammon,” Pendrake said, his words coming slowly and heavily. “You can kill me with a thought, can’t you? You have the power, after all. You don’t need any help.”

The hogmen glanced up at the mage in surprise, as if the same notion was only now occurring to them.

“Use the fire, Ammon,” Pendrake said. “Show the Marrowbone brothers that you still command it. They won’t fear you otherwise.”

Flitch and Hodge kept their eyes on the mage.

“Kill him,” Brax said.

Flitch clutched Pendrake’s cloak in his huge fist and began to drag him toward the edge of the stone lip and the werefire below. Sputter darted in front of him and bobbed in the hogman’s huge face like an insect. Flitch swatted at him with a curse and kept on. He was about to throw Pendrake over when Hodge put a hand on his shoulder.

“I won’t let you do this, brother,” Hodge said. His voice was shaking, but his eyes held his brother’s and did not flinch. “I won’t let you hurt the old man.”

“You simpering idiot,” Flitch snarled. “Let go of me.”

“No, Flitch, I won’t. You’ve been telling me what to do all along. And it always turns bad. You never listen. The girl showed me we don’t have to kill and hate. We could go back to the way things were before all of this.”

“And you believed her,” Flitch sneered. “Your stupidity has finally reached its pinnacle. I tell you what, I think I’ll
kill you next, brother, and make you into a travelling case or a throw rug. Then maybe you’ll finally be of some use to someone.”

“Let him go, Flitch,” Hodge said warningly.

Flitch turned with a snarl and heaved Pendrake toward the edge, but at the last moment Hodge caught the Loremaster and pulled him away.

“Kill him!” Brax roared.

Flitch ignored the mage and threw himself at his brother. They grappled with each other at the edge of the drop, jaws snapping and claws tearing. Flitch had grown under the power of the werefire, but Hodge had always been the larger and heavier of the two brothers, and his greater bulk won out now. One of his immense hands caught Flitch by the neck, and slowly, grunting and growling, he bore him to the edge of the lip. As his boots slid backward on the stone, Flitch struggled to speak, but Hodge’s grip choked off his voice, and all he could bring out were weak gasps of terror.