by Garth Nix
There were no more big road signs for Susan to see, and it was still too dark to read the old white signposts with the local road names even at the slower pace. Besides, she doubted they would mean anything to her anyway. She was puzzled by the wolf’s sudden change of direction, because it had been so fixed on heading north. The departure from the M1 appeared to be sudden and unplanned.
In fact, the wolf seemed as lost as Susan, or at least was finding its way. It stopped at every small crossroads and nosed the air and the ground, an uncomfortable process for Susan, who was jostled around every time.
After a while, she became aware the sky was getting lighter; the sun was coming up. The light offered small comfort. She ached all over, and her bonds felt no looser, despite all her efforts.
The wolf left the road again, this time taking a bridle path into a wood, some sort of ancient forest, though Susan hadn’t caught the actual name on the sign at the beginning of the path. Though the wolf was so large it had to squeeze itself between trees, bending branches back and shaking leaves like anything, curiously none of the branches actually broke and no leaves fell, so there was little sign of its passing.
It was still limping, but moved with greater surety, as if it had finally found what it was looking for.
The bridle path turned to leave the edge of the forest to climb up to the crest of a small, bare hill, but the wolf left the path to descend deeper into the ancient wood. The trees grew thicker here, so close Susan could have sworn there was no way for the wolf to pass, but it made it through, squeezing between oak and beech and birch. It was careful not to knock Susan against the trees, though it didn’t seem to matter for itself.
Eventually, the forest thinned out again, the slope becoming less and less steep until they reached a flat area and the wolf emerged into a dell, a natural clearing at the heart of the wood. There was a small pool in the middle, about twenty feet in diameter, entirely ringed by low, mossy stones. A well, of sorts. Bluebells grew around it in profusion, and on some other day, arriving by some other way, Susan would have found it tranquil and beautiful.
The wolf bent its head and gently lowered Susan down next to the well, though she still felt the impact. It then drank briefly, backed up a few paces, and lay down, turning its head to lick the area around the sword, while being careful to not actually touch the weapon.
Susan wriggled and rolled a bit farther away to a softer patch of ground and tested the cord around her wrists. She felt part of it give way, possibly enough to squeeze one hand free, but the wolf also stopped licking its wound and looked at her. Susan lay still, and waited until it went back to its business before trying the cord again, this time more surreptitiously.
A male blackbird started a hopeful warble from a tree nearby, but there were no human noises. The ancient wood was as it had been for centuries, unspoiled by people, those who had lined the natural spring with stones long since vanished, and the way to it forgotten by all but the creatures of the Old World. There were people living within three miles of the wood, but no footpath or trail came near the dell, and even those who had walked in the forest all their lives would be astounded to hear of the existence of the well in the dell.
Susan was trying to ease her left hand up and out of the binding cord when the waters of the well began to froth and bubble. She heard it first, and had to roll on her side to see what was happening.
The waters of the spring were flowing over the rocks that lined the edges, and the surface was beaten to a froth, as if a fierce wind were blowing across the well. But there was no wind, the dell was as placid as ever, the surrounding trees quiet, leaves undisturbed. Sunshine was creeping in from the rising sun, banishing shadow. It looked like it was going to be a beautiful day, at least as far as the weather was concerned.
A hand of transparent, swirling water reached out from the well and gripped a stone, narrow fingers flexing, long nails of white froth digging deep. This was followed by another hand, there was a moment of scrabbling for a grip, and a woman of water emerged to stand at the edge of the well. She was near transparent, clear water swirling and eddying from toes to head. But her eyes were black and rusty like the spots on a brown trout, her mouth was two lines of green pondweed, and her hair looked like a wig, a mass of blue-green rushes that sat unsteadily atop all the swirling water.
Susan lay quiet, and looked from the water woman to the wolf. The latter whined pleadingly and lowered its head in submission.
“What brings the Fenris of Onundar Myrr to my well, with so strange a burden?” asked the woman, glancing at Susan. Her voice was ageless, soft and liquid, but somehow distant, as if it came from all around, not from her pondweed lips, which hardly moved at all. A minnow slid from her mouth as she spoke. She caught it on her palm, the fish splashing into her hand to swim away up the inside of her arm.
The wolf whined again.
The water woman left the well and traipsed across the turf, leaving not so much muddy footprints as a muddy swath behind her. She walked the length of the wolf, who lay with its snout down in abject misery, and ran one watery hand through the fur along its flank. She came to where the sword projected above the crusted trail of blood, and stopped.
“Sa! Sa! This is star-iron and not to be touched by such as you or I, Fenris. The sword must be withdrawn . . . yet I cannot do it.”
The water woman looked back at Susan as she spoke. Though her face was transparent liquid, and only her eyes and lips had color, Susan thought she saw an expression there. A hint of a lifted eyebrow, though the woman had no eyebrows.
“I’ll take it out,” said Susan. “If you free me.”
The wolf growled, but subsided as the woman touched one watery finger to its enormous snout.
“The Fenris will want to take you up again,” warned the woman.
“I will have the sword, then,” said Susan, though privately she thought this wouldn’t count for much against a monster who must weigh twenty tons. “And it is wounded and weak.”
The wolf growled again, and showed its teeth.
“She,” corrected the woman. “This Fenris is a she-wolf. If the sword is left in the wound, she will . . . in your terms . . . die.”
“I said I’ll take it out. If you untie me.”
“For a mortal you are remarkably unperturbed by my presence,” said the woman. “Or that of the Fenris. Most mortals I have met are greatly frightened, and run screaming, or collapse and gibber.”
“I’m . . . I’m only half mortal,” said Susan. It felt very strange to say that, but she instinctively felt she should not show weakness. A slight tinge of memory made her add, “Besides, I’ve met someone like you before, I think. From the brook at home . . . funny, I always forget, and then I remember, and then I think it was a dream. . . .”
“Half mortal?” asked the woman. “You appear entirely mortal to me. . . .”
She drifted closer, never moving in a straight line, and knelt by Susan’s side. Reaching out with one careful fingertip, she touched Susan’s forehead, leaving a faint wet patch on her skin. “Ah. Some little magic of your own, over animals and suchlike. But the promise of far more to come, perhaps, from your mighty father. But not yet, not yet, Susan.”
“You know my name! And my father? Who is he?”
“A being older and far greater than I,” said the woman, not answering Susan’s question. She looked back at the Fenris. “I know your name as I know the names of all living things about my well. Come, the she-wolf is aware I must offer aid to those who seek it at my spring, and you have the means to help me give it.”
She leaned down again, and Susan shrieked as an eel suddenly erupted out of the woman’s hand, its sharp teeth flashing as it bit through the cord around Susan’s wrists and then her ankles, before twisting back inside the woman again, to vanish into the apparently empty crystal waters of her body.
“Ugh,” said Susan, with a shudder. She tried to get up, but her legs were cramped and so stiff she had to crouch on all fou
rs, sobbing with the pain.
The woman reached for her again, and Susan flinched. But no eels emerged from her hands, which she ran lightly over Susan, not quite touching. A faint mist fell from her fingers to speckle on boiler suit and skin. With the mist, Susan felt a cool touch, not cold like ice, more like a mother’s hand on a fevered brow. Her legs unknotted, her back stopped aching, her hands moved without pain.
Susan stood up, and instinctively bowed.
“Thank you, um,” she said. “What . . . who . . . what should I call you?”
“Long ago mortals called my waters Morcenna’s Well,” said the woman, bowing back. “Morcenna is as good a name as any. Will you remove the sword now? The star-iron is in the she-wolf’s blood; every passing moment poisons her more.”
“Yes,” said Susan. She walked to stand in front of the wolf, quailing inside at the immensity of the monster, and particularly those jaws, those teeth. She hadn’t seen the she-wolf clearly before, in the dark of the Milner Square back garden.
She addressed the wolf directly, speaking loud and clear.
“If I take out the sword, will you let me be?”
The wolf slowly shook her head. Her eyes were growing dull, and there was a yellow cast about her gums, and froth upon her tongue.
“She must obey the one who bound her to their will,” said Morcenna behind her. “Will you take the sword or not?”
Susan nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She swallowed, and walked along the side of the wolf, trying to think. The sword was deeply embedded. It would be hard to pull out. But if she immediately ran for the tree line . . . she looked over at the thickest area, where the oaks gathered close. If she could get in there, the wolf might find it hard to winkle her out, she could hack at its nose . . . though it seemed to have no problem passing through dense woodland—
“Every moment the sword poisons her,” said Morcenna.
Susan took a deep breath, grabbed the sword with both hands, and pulled as hard as she could. But there was no resistance at all; the sword came out as if it had been in a well-oiled scabbard. Susan careered backwards, tripped over one of the encircling stones, dropped the sword, and fell into the well, plunging completely underwater before her panicked strokes brought her back up again.
“Damn it!” exclaimed Vivien. “The wolf’s left the motorway. Stop!”
Merlin pulled the cab off onto the hard shoulder, adjacent to a field of new-mown hay. The sun was rising, and the traffic was increasing, though there was a lot more heading south than north, over on the other side of the motorway.
“They’re west of here, and close,” said Vivien. “And the Fenris is much slower now. Your sword must be taking a toll. I’m going to have a look where it went into the field—I think it’s only fifty or sixty yards back.”
“Make it quick,” said Merlin. “We shouldn’t be stopping here. I don’t want to attract attention. From anyone.”
He got out and opened the bonnet of the cab, to make it look as if it had broken down, on the principle of giving people an obvious reason for something so they looked no deeper. Vivien climbed over the fence and went into the field. Though it had been recently cut, and there was little more than stubble between the rolls of hay, it was fairly obvious where the wolf had gone. Though by its nature it did not leave enormous paw prints, it did cause mysterious scuff marks that would be very confusing to any normal person. If the creature had laid down for a while, and the clover was high, it would have made a crop circle.
Vivien followed the tracks through the field for about a hundred yards, looking at the distance between prints. There were bloodstains, too, though they were not visible to any normal mortal’s eyes, and were not as frequent nor as large as Vivien hoped.
She turned to go back to the cab as a police Rover 3500 drew up on the hard shoulder about twenty yards behind it, with blue light flashing, but no siren. The doors on either side opened and the police got out but did not move beyond the doors.
Merlin was standing in front of the cab, leaning into the engine bay. He didn’t step out to greet the police officers but instead knelt down, and Vivien saw him pull out the little Beretta he had in his ankle holster.
Vivien looked back at the police officers, who had drawn revolvers and were aiming over the top of their splayed-open doors. She started to run, drawing in an enormous breath as she did so.
The softer bang of the .25 Beretta came a fraction of a second after the crack of the police officers’ Smith & Wesson .38 revolvers.
Chapter Sixteen
moonlight on rushes and still water
the quiet of the night
yet if you listen
very carefully
you might hear it
crawling closer
and closer
clos—
MERLIN FIRED TWICE FROM THE LEFT FRONT OF THE CAB, DUCKED across to the right, and fired twice more. Glass shattered as the police officers’ bullets blew out the back window of the cab and starred the windscreen, but didn’t go anywhere close to Merlin.
After these initial shots, there were no more.
Merlin dropped prone and crawled along the side of the cab to take a closer look. He saw one police officer on the ground and crawled farther, ready to shoot if necessary. But the other officer was also down. Merlin got up and raced forward. He arrived at the same time as Vivien on the other side, who kicked a revolver under the car before kneeling down to give the officer first aid.
Merlin checked the police officer closest to him. She was lying on her back, with her hands clutched low on the right side of her neck, blood trickling between her fingers. She looked up at Merlin, a puzzled expression on her face. Not from pain, but bewilderment.
“What’s going on?” she asked. “Why on earth are we on the M1?”
“You’ll be okay,” soothed Merlin. He had aimed for her right shoulder, not the neck. He moved her hands aside, pulled open her jacket, and tried not to show alarm. It didn’t look good.
He pulled a vial of Sipper saliva out of the narrow pocket inside his sleeve, snapped the top off, swilled it around in his mouth, and spat it into the wound. The liquid glowed as it fell, bright rivulets spreading through the darker blood.
Vivien appeared with the first aid kit from the police car’s boot. She opened it, grabbed a field dressing, and pressed it hard on the woman’s neck, holding it on.
“Bandage!” she said.
“Why is the sky so blue?” asked the woman. “So blue.”
“How’s the other one?” asked Merlin. He lifted the woman’s head so he could get the bandage around her neck.
“Dead,” said Vivien. She peeled back the edge of her glove so an inch of silver skin was visible at the heel of her hand and held it against the wound, sucking in her breath. She held it for several seconds, then exhaled.
“Definitely dead?” asked Merlin in a small voice.
“A ricochet off the door frame into his eye and then the brain. Instant death.”
“Shit,” said Merlin. “Shit, shit.”
“This one will live, I think,” said Vivien. She took her hand away and pulled up the glove. “But as well as the wound, someone’s interfered with her mind. I can’t tell who, or whether it will last.”
Cars were slowing down as the people in them gawked at the scene. Merlin looked up as he heard a car stopping behind the police vehicle and instantly picked up his pistol. The stopping car was a newish Vauxhall Estate, splashed with mud. A woman in Wellington boots and wearing what looked like green hospital scrubs leaped out the passenger side, her hands held high. The man in the driver’s seat was hunched as low as he could go and still see out the windscreen.
“I’m a vet!” called the woman nervously. “Can I help? Please?”
“Yes,” shouted Merlin. “Tell your friend to drive to the next emergency telephone and call an ambulance and the police! You can take over here.”
The Vauxhall took off. The traffic had been increasing, there w
as a steady flow, but now all of them were slowing down to have a look, which would cause a tailback for miles and bring attention sooner rather than later. It was also possible one of those who’d previously gone past had already stopped at the next emergency phone and called for help.
The vet ran up, keeping her hands in the air. Merlin picked up the officer’s .38 to remove any temptation for some sort of heroic intervention, and went around the other side of the car to lean in and check the VHF two-way radio, stepping over the man he’d killed.
“The other officer’s dead,” said Vivien to the vet. “Keep direct pressure on. I think she’ll make it.”
As Merlin expected, the radio was still on the London general frequency, useless here in Leicestershire. If this had been any sort of authorized excursion, they would have already telephoned the local police and prearranged a frequency or at least tuned it to the general channel for the county. He got out, and gestured to Vivien. The vet had her hands on the pad over the gunshot wound, concentrating entirely on the patient, not looking at Merlin and Vivien.
The two booksellers walked quickly back towards their taxi.
“How did you know?” asked Vivien.
“It’s a Met car, not Leicestershire Constabulary,” said Merlin. “That made me suspicious, and then they moved strangely getting out. Reminded me of the thugs who came for Susan. That constable back there, she wasn’t asking why she was on the motorway out of shock, she genuinely didn’t know how she came to be there. Her mind had been messed with!”
“I know,” said Vivien gently. “I told you.”
“I didn’t shoot until they did and damn it, I was shooting to wound!”
“I know,” repeated Vivien. “Come on, we have to go.”
Merlin slammed the hood shut and jumped in the driver’s side. He had to wait a moment for a gap in the traffic, and he wondered if someone was going to try and stop them, ramming the car or something equally stupid. But the people who’d seen what actually happened had already been carried forward by the ceaseless tide of vehicles. All those passing now saw was a slightly incongruous London black cab—a relatively rare but by no means impossible sight on any motorway—leaving some sort of accident involving a police car.
