‘But One-Eye isn’t here,’ Maddy said, and, turning away from her target, she discharged her glam – Aesk, the Ash – as hard as she could at the Horse’s Eye.
At precisely the same moment her twin did likewise; though the mindrune she used was new to Maddy. In fact, it was Ác, the Thunder Oak, flung with all Maggie’s untrained glam, and as it collided in mid-air with Aesk, there was a thunderous double crash and a sudden, massive release of glam that flung Maddy forward onto the ground and ripped through the Hill like an earthquake, and all these things happened at once:
Hughie and Mandy took wing and fled.
Maddy dropped the broken strap.
The Horse’s Eye split open, and a shudder went through the hillside.
A whinnying sound cut through the air. It sounded like no kind of horse that Maddy Smith had ever heard; but it raised the hackles on her neck and brought a coppery taste to her mouth.
The girl from World’s End, still standing, smiled and raised a fistful of runes.
And something came slowly out of the Hill – something that slouched and strained and dragged, all heavy with clay and glamours – and birthed itself laboriously, inch by inch, out of the ground, so that to Maddy it seemed as if the entire Hill were trying to re-assemble itself, acquiring ribs, legs, nostrils, mane, hooves the size of boulders, and an eye that fixed on the girl who sat quite fearless atop its spine, holding in her left hand a glam Maddy recognized, which glowed a radiant butterfly-blue against the darkening winter sky.
And as Maddy fought for balance, or for something steady to hold onto, she realized that Sleipnir was not just coming out of the Hill. Sleipnir was the Hill itself, and if she wanted to survive, then she would have to reach solid ground, or be swallowed as the whole of Red Horse Hill slowly but surely began to collapse.
Loki, she thought, would have wasted no time in taking bird Aspect and flying away. But Aspect-shifting needs practice, and Maddy, whose Chaos blood ran only on her mother’s side, had never been very good at it. To be fair, she hadn’t really tried since her last attempt, eighteen months ago, to assume the form of a seagull. The wingless result of her morning’s work had been more like a half-plucked chicken than anything else, and Maddy had spent the rest of the day picking feathers out of her hair, while Loki cracked bird-jokes, Freyja looked smug, and even Sugar found it hard to keep a straight face when she was around. Since that day Maddy had tried to concentrate on her strengths rather than her weaknesses, which meant that any attempt to shift would certainly end in disaster.
No, she would have to try something else. Desperately, she looked around. There had to be a way out of this. The Hill was pulling itself apart: a crown of red clay lurched out of the ground; boulders tumbled away from its flanks. The snow was mostly melted here; though along the more sheltered flank of the Hill, where the runoff snow had re-frozen and set into crevices between the rocks, Maddy could see a long stretch of ice, almost like a toboggan run, that reached from the highest slopes of the Hill right down towards the Malbry road.
In simpler days Maddy Smith, riding a battered tea tray, had sped down just such ice-runs as this, screaming like a savage. There had been some collisions, of course. But most of the time it had worked rather well.
She glanced down the slope. It seemed mostly clear, except for a single cluster of rocks that, with luck, she hoped she could dodge. It was steeper than her childhood runs, and of course she was lacking the tea tray, but even so Maddy thought that the principle must be the same. Well – here goes, she said to herself, and, casting Yr for protection, she flung herself down the glassy slope.
The run was even steeper than she’d thought, and for a moment Maddy was sure that she would lose control of her descent. But she quickly remembered her old technique, using her hands and feet to steer, and, missing the cluster of rocks by an inch, she rapidly gained momentum, and shot as fast as a mindbolt down the side of Red Horse Hill, her hair streaming out like a pirate’s flag and her old defiant war-cry ringing through the air as, with a ponderous flick of his mane, the General’s Horse unfolded his legs and arose at last from his long, long sleep.
A bank of snow broke her fall, but even so Maddy was half stunned by the impact. For a minute or two she lay on her back, looking up at the dull yellow sky and trying to work out where she was. Overhead, two ravens flew.
Two ravens … Maddy thought dreamily.
She sat up, shaking the snow from her hair. She turned her face towards the Hill – at least, at what was left of it. Because, as Maddy now realized, the thing that had once been Red Horse Hill, the thing that straddled eight Worlds and galloped at the speed of Dream, now stood before her in Aspect – and it wasn’t really a horse at all, but something defying description; something born of nightmare …
It looked like some madman’s dream of a horse. The body’s proportions were almost right; but the legs – all eight of them, no less – were grotesquely long and thin, like the legs on a midsummer crane fly, digging so far into the ground that they might have been the roots of trees and reaching so far above her that Maddy had to tilt her head back to see the creature standing over her, its colours like St Sepulchre’s Fire, obliterating half the sky.
Its mane was every colour of red, from rose-pink to vermilion to almost-black. And among those savage colours Maddy could see the net of runes – with Odin’s glam to hold it in place, just like the reins on an ordinary horse, saddled and harnessed and ready to ride.
And as Maddy stared, half stunned at the sight, the girl from World’s End looked down at her, and said in a calm and even voice:
‘A named thing is a tamed thing.’
IT HAD BEEN a long, strange dream. Maggie had never had such a dream, not in all her seventeen years, and at several points in this one she had been on the verge of retreat, of telling Adam she couldn’t do this, that some things were never meant to be dreamed and that she was not a warrior.
But her courage, combined with the Voice in her head, drove her on; though most of all, it was the thought of Adam’s disappointment that kept her from just opening her eyes and leaving Malbry to its monsters.
The thing that had dragged itself out of the Hill was bad enough, Maggie thought. But now she could see what followed it; what seethed into the gap it had left; what gurgled darkly in its wake, awaiting its chance to enter the world.
It looked like a smear of black smoke, or a cloud of ink, or a swarm of bees, and Maggie could hear it under the ground – ten thousand voices clamouring; ten thousand footsteps; ten thousand tortured prisoners all clawing and scrabbling to be born.
But most disturbing of all was the girl who was lying in the snow at her feet. Such an ordinary-looking girl, with her leather tunic and wolfskin cloak and braided hair like an Outlander’s.
Was this really the enemy? The Voice in her head had told her it was. And yet she looked so normal, so very un-demonic. Maggie knew that demons could take whatever form they chose, but this girl – this very familiar girl – seemed such an unexpected choice. Did she know her? A part of her thought maybe she did. Those eyes, that stubborn mouth …
Why, that girl looks exactly like me!
Quick! The Word! said the Voice in her head. Quick, while you still have the chance!
Maggie cast aside her doubts and searched for the relevant canticle. She knew the Book of Invocations verse by verse, list by list. And she knew that ruinmark, Aesk, the Ash, that gave her Maddy’s true name …
She held the bridle of light in one hand and recited the Words of the Good Book:
‘I name thee Modi, Thunderchild. I name thee Aesk, Lightning Ash. I name thee Destroyer and Builder of Worlds. I name thee …’
The canticle was working. The girl – the demon – was weakening. The Word seemed to have this effect on her kind; every syllable a blow. Now she lay helpless at Maggie’s feet, a line of red across her cheek where something – a bramble – had scratched her. The Word had robbed her of speech, but her breath still clouded the cold
air – and that was when Maggie realized that none of this was a dream any more; that somehow all of this was real—
Finish her! While there’s still time!
The Magister’s Voice was commanding. But Maggie Rede had never been used to blind, unthinking obedience. The Order would never have taken her on, not even if she’d been a boy. To kill in a dream was one thing, she thought. But to kill like this, using the Word, in a manner opposed to all the Order’s teachings, and without even knowing the first thing about this girl who looked so much like her—
Never mind that, snapped the Voice in her mind, the being that called itself Magister. Do as I say, girl! Finish her! Remember the Book of Apocalypse! Maggie, this is your destiny!
Destiny? Maggie thought. Like all the Order’s children, she believed very strongly in such things. She remembered the Book of Apocalypse, the verse that dealt with the End of the Worlds:
And there shall come a Horse of Fire,
And the name of his Rider is Carnage.
And there shall come a Horse of the Sea,
And the name of his Rider is Treachery.
And there shall come a Horse of Air,
And the name of his Rider is Lunacy …
Could this be her destiny? Was Maggie Rede from World’s End fated to ride the Horse of Fire? She’d dreamed of this for so many years, alone in her underground labyrinth. She’d read so many stories of the Universal City and the great Apocalypse; of Tribulations and Cleansings; of warriors and demons and gods. And in her darkest, wildest dreams Maggie had always fought alongside them, riding across the Nine Worlds, wading through rivers of unholy blood, an angel with a crossbow.
Nevertheless, in three years she had never killed anything bigger than a rat; and now, with the face of her enemy – so very like her own face – staring up at her from the snow, Maggie found that she simply could not obey the Voice without question.
‘Who are you?’ she said to the girl at her feet. ‘Who are you, and how do you wear my face?’
The girl climbed painfully to her knees. The canticle had silenced her momentarily, but now her glam – and her voice – had returned. Her ruinmark flared in the palm of her hand, a brilliant coppery colour, but she made no visible move to attack.
Do it, Maggie! Finish her! The Voice had lost its calm authority; its tone was one of anguish now. Maggie Rede, I COMMAND YOU—
But Maggie’s attention was on the girl. Her voice was almost lost in the sound of Maggie’s ghostly passenger, but even so, she could hear it – a pleasant voice, much like her own, but with a trace of a Northlands accent:
‘Maggie. Listen. That voice in your head. The one that tells you what to do.’
Maggie felt her throat contract. ‘How did you know my name?’ she said. ‘How did you know about the Voice?’
The presence in her mind had become a savage, snarling animal. YOU WILL OBEY MY COMMAND! it said.
Maggie shook the Magister aside like a terrier shaking a rat. It hurt, but she was stronger; she felt its rage and frustration clawing for control of her mind …
‘How did you know?’
‘I guessed,’ said the girl. ‘It’s the Whisperer. An enemy of my people and yours. I’ve seen people under its spell before. And I know you’re not really a murderer.’
Maggie frowned. ‘You’re lying,’ she said. ‘You’re one of them. The enemy. The filthy, treacherous Firefolk.’
‘That’s right,’ said the girl. ‘I am one of them. But we are not the enemy. The Whisperer is the enemy. It lies. It wants to use you. It knows who you are, and it’s using you to wreak revenge on your family.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ Maggie said. ‘The Firefolk killed my family.’
‘That isn’t true,’ said the girl from the North. ‘Maggie, I’m your s—’
It was then that the ground began to explode. A geyser of earth and rocks and grass erupted twelve feet to Maggie’s left, followed by another one just in front of her spectral mount. The Red Horse reared; he bared his teeth; cold fire shot from his nostrils. At the same instant something began to flood uncontrollably out of the Hill: a squealing, snickering tide of life that swarmed out of the holes in the broken ground and fanned out onto the seamless snow.
At the same moment Maggie felt something snag at her thoughts, like a fish-hook caught inside her mind. It was her passenger again, battling its will against hers. For a moment her vision blurred. A spike of pain went through her head. Her dream-hands clutched the cat’s cradle of reins even more tightly than before.
Below her, the girl from the Northlands was struggling to get to her feet. Earth and rubble showered them both, bouncing off the crust of snow. Maggie’s head was pounding now; her vision doubled, trebled. She was vaguely aware of the girl from the North turning once to look at her, then beginning to run across the snow.
Above her, two ravens circled mystically.
The fish-hook in Maggie’s mind pulled again, urging her to give in, to obey.
YOU CANNOT RESIST ME, MAGGIE REDE. I ORDER YOU TO OBEY ME! STRIKE HER DOWN! USE THE WORD! DO IT NOW, BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE!
But Maggie was no Adam Scattergood, to be reeled in like a caught fish. STOP IT! she said, and shoved at the unseen presence with all the considerable force of her will. The Red Horse beneath her reared up, almost as if to encourage her.
She felt the Magister’s astonishment.
GET OUT! she ordered, and lunged again. Once more the Horse responded.
The Voice grew plaintive, pitiful. Please, Maggie. Let Me explain—
GET THE HEL OUT OF MY MIND, Maggie said, and gave a final violent push. Beneath her, the Horse gave a giant leap; there came a sudden flare of light …
And Maggie opened her eyes again and found herself back in the Universal City, sitting up in bed with the Good Book open at her side, and Adam watching her wide-eyed, and the old familiar city sounds like music in her waking ears.
For a moment she was so relieved to find herself back home again that she almost didn’t notice the fact that she and Adam were not alone. A sound brought her back to reality; a gentle, familiar whickering – the kind you might hear on any street corner or in any place where livestock is kept.
Maggie turned and saw a horse standing by the bedside. It looked just like a regular horse – a strawberry roan with a long black mane. It had the usual number of legs. Why then was she so sure that this was no ordinary animal? And what was it doing in their room?
She turned to look at the Good Book, still open at the picture of the strange, eight-legged Horse. Had the picture caused her dream? Or had dreaming driven her mad?
The picture in the Good Book showed the Horse with a rider. Had that rider been there before? Maggie couldn’t remember. But it was so dark in the room that she’d probably missed it. A tiny figure with cropped dark hair, wearing a scarlet tunic …
Maggie closed the Good Book and locked it with the golden key. Then she turned to look back at the Horse through the circle of finger and thumb. Through the rune Bjarkán she caught a brief, unspeakable glimpse of red. And on its bridle, a flash of blue signalled the presence of some kind of glam.
She’d thought it was a dream. But no. Here it was, in the real world. The Red Horse of the Last Days …
Which now, it seemed, belonged to her.
I saw an eight-legg’d horse trot by.
(Fie, oh fie, ye drunken fool!)
Nine Worlds were in his gleaming eye.
(Fie, ye drunken scally!)
World’s End drinking song
THE GODS (EXCEPT for Maddy, of course) knew nothing but the aftermath. For five hundred years the Red Horse had slept, awaiting the time of the Last Days. Now he was gone, the Hill was no more, and Dream – raw Dream, undiluted, uncontrollable – was unleashed upon the valley.
It was the greatest wave of ephemera the gods had seen since Ragnarók. It started under Red Horse Hill, where all the dregs of World Below – Faërie, goblins and other undesirables, including Loki, wh
o was still in disgrace – had made their quarters out of reach of Æsir, Vanir and the Folk.
It had come quite early that morning, when the sun was barely grazing the Hill. The villagers of Malbry had mostly still been in their beds, except for a few early risers and Crazy Nan, who got up at dawn to feed her cats and had seen the chaotic signatures in the sky above the Hill. For most, however, the first sign had been a kind of rumbling sound, as of an impending storm, followed by an explosion, as if all the geysers of World Below had chosen to erupt at once.
The rats had felt it first, and fled upwards in their thousands, swarming from the darkest depths, streaming through holes in the porous rock, squealing and biting and tearing each other – and at anything else that stood in their way – in an increasingly frenzied struggle to escape.
Sugar, with Thor in the blacksmith’s house, found the courtyard full of them: brown rats, black rats, grey rats and red-eyed albino rats, pouring out of sewers and drains as World Below prepared itself for a massive evacuation. Some even popped right out of the ground like corks from bottles of ginger beer, and Sugar saw that a cloud of birds had begun to assemble over the village; eagles, carrion birds, hawks and crows and jackdaws and gulls, excited by the swarming prey, were circling over Malbry in numbers hitherto unseen.
Maddy, running as fast as she could away from the scene at Red Horse Hill, had time to remember the occasion when, three years ago, while trying to capture a goblin, she had accidentally summoned all Malbry’s vermin into Mrs Scattergood’s cellar. The present disruption was something like that, but magnified ten thousand times. Something was coming – something big – released by her twin and by the Horse they had awakened between them. As she ran for cover, Maddy couldn’t help wondering why Maggie had not made a move to attack as she lay helpless and dazed at the foot of the Hill.
Had she lost control of the Horse? Had she simply run out of glam? Had she decided to leave the job of finishing off the enemy to whatever was coming from World Below? Was it some vestige of loyalty, a sense of kinship that had stayed her hand? Or was it because she knew somehow that Maddy too had disobeyed orders, preferring to lose the Red Horse rather than strike at her sister? Was she being used by the Whisperer, an innocent caught up in its plans? And if so, could she be saved from herself and brought back to her family?
Runelight Page 13
