The Shadow at the Gate

by Christopher Bunn

  Owain Gawinn reined in his horse and glanced back. The night was dark and the rain made it even more difficult to see. A few shards of moonlight gleamed on leather harness and oilskins. He could hear more than he could see: the creak of saddles, horse hooves squelching through the mud, and the mumble of talk between the men.

  They were good men. Well-trained. Hardened under his tutelage. Few of them, though, had proper battle experience. Oh, there had been some skirmishing over the years. Bandits raiding villages and traders. A particularly nasty fight with ogres in the upper reaches of the Rennet Valley. Old Yan Frearen had lost his arm in that one. Not to mention the boy who had been killed. The new recruit.

  Owain frowned. He wiped rain from his eyes and squinted ahead. They were nearing the rise at the west end of the Rennet Valley. The eucalyptus trees crowding along the north bank were unmistakable, even in the dark. He could not remember the boy’s name. He could remember his face, though. Pale, uncomprehending, eyes widening as if already seeing something more, something beyond Tormay. But even ogres, no matter how vicious they were, could be taken down by sheer strength of numbers. It was a matter of fielding enough swords. The trick with ogres was not to get drawn into fighting in tight quarters with them. Though that wasn’t always true. The Farrow lad had proven that. If the story was true.

  “River’s runnin’ high.”

  It was Hoon. The little tracker materialized out of the night and nudged his horse alongside Owain’s mount. He had a length of oilcloth wrapped around his head like a shawl. Water dripped from the end of his nose.

  “Runnin’ high,” repeated Hoon. “Ain’t seen it this high in a long time.” There was gloomy satisfaction in his voice.

  “How high?” said Owain.

  “I reckon right up t’ the withers at the edge of the ford. Midstream, deep enough to founder a horse. Probably haveta do a little swimming there. Weren’t about t’ go in just t’ find out. Track looks mighty soft where it runs down next t’ the bank. Slick clay. ‘Spose we could allus turn back an’ climb outa the valley. There’s a trader’s road just south, runnin’ up from Lura.”

  “No. We’ll go on,” said Owain. He shook his head. “I’m not about to lose half a day backtracking. We’re almost home. If needs be, we can swim the ford. Everyone’s wet enough already as it is.”

  Hoon chuckled as if this idea made him happy.

  “It’ll be easy enough. I do enjoy some good swimmin’.”

  The two rode along in silence for some time. The entire company had slowed from a canter to a walk, due to the muddy path and the darkness. Owain was not about to push them any faster. A well-trained horse was wise enough to be allowed its own pace in such conditions.

  “Hoon?”

  “Aye?”

  “You’ve been hunting in the wilds for years. Probably longer than I’ve been alive, if I guess your age right. What do you think it is we’re searching for?”

  “Wouldn’t rightly want t’ say.” Hoon spat into the rain and then tugged the oilskin closer around his head. “There be plenty of horrible things in this world, I reckon. Sure enough. Plenty be willing to cut your throat sooner’n say how-do.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well,” said Hoon. “You got your ogres an’ bears an’ kobolds to begin with. Those are bad enough, though them kobolds ain’t much for fightin’ unless they got no other choice. Then, you watch out. Ogres an’ bears—I don’t advise tanglin’ with neither, but bear steak is good eatin’ an’ there ain’t much like a good bearskin t’ keep you warm in winter. Ogre? I’d sooner eat my boots. Nasty, greasy stuff, ogre is.”

  “I’m not interested in ogres or bears. What of other creatures? You’ve lived up in the Morn Mountains. Surely you’ve encountered strange things there that I’ve only heard about in stories.”

  The path began to descend. Owain’s horse picked its way forward. From up out of the darkness they could hear the murmuring rush of the river below. On either side, the edges of the valley sloped up, reaching higher and sharper until they met with the sky. The wind was cold and brisk and it blew the rain into their faces. High up on the plain, though, Owain knew the wind would be howling.

  “Trouble is,” said Hoon reluctantly, “stories are most ways true. Makes me wonder if somethin’ comes true if enough people say it enough times. Y’ever hear the story about the Lady o’ Limary?”

  “My sister,” said Owain, “bless her heart, used to scare me senseless with that story when I was a little boy. Of course, when I grew older, I realized it was only a story. Things like that don’t happen.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure. Parts of the story might be true. Far as a girl makin’ a pact with the Dark to live forever, well, most girls are giddy enough t’ try somethin’ damn fool like that. But that’s aside the point. Truth is, there’s a village called Limary, up in the mountains on the northeasterly edge of the Loam Forest. Only, ain’t hardly anyone call it Limary anymore on account of no one’s lived in the village for more’n two hundred years. Just ruins now. But there’re a few folks round abouts that remember. Sheepfarmers, of course.”

  “What do sheep have to do with the so-called Lady of Limary?”

  “Enough, an’ I’ll tell you why. It happened a whiles back. I weren’t much more’n a boy in those days, but I’d struck out from home, making my way hunting an’ doing odd jobs. A friend an’ I wandered into a village on that same northeasterly edge of the Loam. East of Dolan somewhat. Pretty much nowhere, but right up against the mountains. A farmer hired us to hunt down an old wolf. It’d been makin’ off with his sheep. Least, that’s what he thought it was.”

  Owain shifted in the saddle, trying to find a spot that wasn’t sore. It had been years since he had been so many days on horseback. The ford wasn’t much further now, if his memory served him, and then it would be an hour more to the gates of Hearne. A quick ride in good weather, through the cornfields and meadows of the western reach of the Rennet, but undoubtedly muddy and treacherous this night.

  “Oh?” said Owain. “I suspect you’re going to tell me it was this Lady of Limary making off with the sheep, and not a wolf.”

  “Ain’t no use tellin’ the story,” said Hoon. “Ain’t no use if you’re bound on tellin’ it yourself.”

  “There’s surely more to the story than that.”

  “Well, there is. Much more. I’ll tell it, if you let me. We lit out on those tracks, my friend an’ I. But the wolf knew a thing or two more’n us, an’ we lost the trail halfway up a mountain. Big mountain. Found out later it were called Limary, an’ it’s had that name long afore any folk lived in those parts. Night was comin’ on fast an’ it were cold up that high. Cold enough to drive ice into your bones. Luck would have it, just when we were thinkin’ about crawlin’ our way back down the mountain, my friend sees a light up ahead. Look, he says. I weren’t too happy about that light, but I weren’t too happy about the cold neither.”

  “I’ve heard of the moor lights,” said Owain. “Lights far out on the moors that lure travelers to their death in the bogs and falling into sudden crevices.”

  “Pshaw,” said Hoon. “Moor lights ain’t nothin’ much. Only a fool be taken in by a moor light. Our light, now, was altogether different. We made our way over to it an’ found a big stone house built there, right on the mountainside. Light shone out the window. The door opened at our knock an’ there stood the loveliest lady you’d never seen. Skin as white as frost on the flowers and lips redder’n blood. She had the prettiest green eyes.”

  “Ah,” said Owain. “The stories are all the same.”

  “Right they are. That’s because they’re true. Hadn’t you heard me afore?”

  “Of course, of course. It’s just I’ve only heard the stories. You’ve obviously experienced them. So what happened then?”

  “Well, I’ll tell you,” said Hoon, somewhat mollified by these words. “I’ll tell you, if you let me talk. The lady offered us shelter for the night. Invited us in. Had her serv
ants give us a dinner—”

  “Mutton, probably,” said Owain to himself.

  “—an’ we ate until we were stuffed. Ain’t had such good feed in all my life. Real quiet sorts, was her servants. Never said a word. Just all eyes starin’ an’ silent an’ tiptoeing about. She bid us good night an’ had us shown to our room. Only one room for the both of us, but she apologized nicely, sayin’ it were on account of the weather an’ she had other guests already at bed. We was both right tired an’ it were late. My friend dropped off like a stone, snoring away. Mebbe it were the racket he were making, but I couldn’t sleep straight off. Lay there for a while. The food didn’t sit well in my stomach. Just when I were about asleep, I heard this noise at the door. It were quiet enough, but y’understand I were a hunter’s son. The sound weren’t human, I can tell you. It were a sniffing sound as if some creature were getting a taste of us into its nose. The hair stood up on the back of my neck.”

  “What happened then?” asked Owain.

  “Whaddya expect? About had time to sit up in bed, blink, an’ then the door opened. Silent an’ slow, but I got a glimpse of green eyes staring at me, huge and flaring like lamps, an’ I smelt something like wolf but worse. Tumbled off the bed an’ dove into an old wardrobe standing ‘longside the bed. Gave a yell enough to wake the dead, but my friend just snored on. Then I was in the wardrobe. Luck would have it, there was slats on the inside an’ I held onto ‘em for dear life. Somethin’ hit the doors, harder’n a mule kick, but it were made of good solid oak. Three times, whatever were on the outside slammed against those doors. I could hear the thing scratching an’ snarling. An’ then there were only silence. I must’ve fell asleep in that wardrobe, still clinging to them slats. I woke up shivering the next morning, I were that cold. Except, I weren’t in a wardrobe in a room inside no stone house. I were curled up on the mountainside. Just ice an’ rock around, an’ there weren’t no houses in sight. Only thing in sight were my friend, lying there with his throat torn out an’ big pawprints in the snow around him. Gave me a right turn.”

  “And you suppose it was the Lady of Limary?”

  “Who else?” Hoon shrugged. “Laugh all you want, but I know what I saw. I know what happened. I was there. You weren’t. Point is, ain’t much we know. Or want to know. S’far as our murderers, I dunno. Could be any number of creatures we ain’t never seen nor heard of.”

  By this time, the path had descended down to the riverbank. The river rushed through the darkness, and they could hear the rain hissing on the water. The horses behind them halted.

  “Going to get wet,” said Hoon.

  “As long as we’re home tonight. That’s all that matters.”

  “All right, men,” said Owain. “Swim ‘em over. The river’s running too high.”

  Someone mumbled a curse, but Owain did not bother turning. He had not the heart for such discipline, not after a long day’s ride in the cold rain. He would have cursed as well, but his thoughts were already full of home and warmth and Sibb. Owain kicked free from the stirrup and stepped down to the ground. His boots sank into the mud. He could feel his men’s eyes on him. All grinning, probably. He took a grip on the horse’s reins and walked it into the river.

  Shadows, but the water was cold as ice. He could feel the stones of the ford underfoot. His mount nickered unhappily. He tugged the horse forward. The flow surged against him. And then he was forced to swim, the reins in his mouth and one hand gripping the horse’s mane. The horse lost its footing about midway. The current there was faster than Owain had thought it would be. The flow swept them both along, but the ford was wide and they had not gone more than a dozen yards before the horse struck bottom again. It snorted and surged forward toward the riverbank.

  “All right then!” called out Owain.

  They swam the ford, one by one. Some grinned at him, dripping with water and smeared with mud, some clambering out, sputtering and cursing under their breath. The horses’ breath steamed in the cold night air. Hoon came last, comfortably and impossibly perched on top of his mount, with his boots tucked dry inside his cloak.

  “Perhaps my memory doesn’t serve me well,” said Owain sourly. “Didn’t you say we’d have to swim the ford?”

  “Can’t rightly recollect,” said Hoon. “Though I do enjoy swimmin’ when it’s other folks doin’ it. Mebbe it’s cuz I’m so small, my horse don’t mind the weight.”

  They made good time riding up through the gap at the mouth of the valley, where the sides were as steep as cliffs. The land fell away down to the fields that sloped all the way to the sea. The river rushed off into the night. It would reach Hearne before them, to curve around the city’s southern walls and there find the sea.

  Lights winked in the darkness, far off the muddy track, as they passed solitary cottages and hamlets. The rain slackened and then ceased. The wind blew harder. Above them, however, the clouds scudded away to reveal a night sky shining with stars. The horsemen crested a rise and there, still distant but gleaming with more light than the stars themselves, lay the city of Hearne.

  “An hour more an’ I’ll be drinking ale,” said someone.

  “Bed,” said another. “Keep your ale.”

  Someone else articulated the merits of hot mutton. There was much laughter and good cheer. The horses cantered down the slope.

  “Oats and a warm stable,” said Owain. He patted his horse’s neck. It whickered as if it understood. “Oats and a stable for you. Home for me.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  LEVORETH UNMASKED

  Only a few weeks had gone by since he had been roaming the streets with the rest of the Juggler’s children. Only a few weeks. Jute stared into the darkness of the dungeon passage. He chewed on his thumbnail and snuffled once or twice.

  It wasn’t fair.

  When he had been particularly lonely, he had loved to climb up onto the roof of a house several doors down from the Goose and Gold. From there he could see down into the yard behind the house. Most days, if he waited long enough, the mother of the home would come out with the laundry or with a chicken to pluck or to weed the garden. She had four young children, and they usually tumbled after her into the yard, where they would chase each other about—if they could not catch the cat first—until all four turned into a pile of flying fists and happy roaring and, occasionally, an unhappy, bawling face. That was when the woman would straighten up from her laundry or potatoes, or whatever it was, and cuff the children until they were all bawling. And then, invariably, she would go into the house and reemerge with bread and honey to soothe their tears. Jute never tired of watching them.

  It wasn’t fair. He would have given anything to have been one of those children being cuffed about. Instead, he was in this miserable dungeon. He got to his feet and stretched. His stomach told him it was getting late. No sign of the jailer. There were only shadows and the glow of an oil lamp burning on the wall further down the passage.

  Oh, Hawk, he thought miserably. Where are you? If only I hadn’t climbed out of my window. If only I hadn’t left the ruins. The square was crowded with so many people. Surely I was safe in a confusion of faces and stalls and barrows like that. How was I to know?

  But he hadn’t been safe in the crowd.

  No, agreed the darkness around him.

  Jute blinked. For a brief moment, he thought the shadow lying across the far wall moved. Swirled, as water does when it pours down a drain. But now it was still. It was only a shadow.

  Safety is found in small places.

  Jute scuttled back against the wall.

  In small, quiet places in the dark.

  “Who are you?” he said. His skin twitched. The voice was quiet. He could not tell if the voice was inside his head or if he was hearing the sound.

  Just a memory. Someone asleep, dreaming. Old bones and dust and words. Just someone thinking about waking up and having a bite to eat.

  The boy’s scalp prickled.

  “I-I wouldn’t taste good,” he ma
naged. “I’m extremely scrawny.”

  The voice chuckled. There was a sort of damp sound to it, and Jute’s imagination trembled into life, inhabited by things with pale eyes that could see in the dark. He remembered the spider he had seen while exploring—hundreds of eyes bulging on stalks and gleaming in the shadows with their own cold light.

  There’s no telling for some people’s taste.

  “I wouldn’t make more than a mouthful,” said Jute.

  No, you wouldn’t.

  “No,” said Jute, relieved they had arrived at some agreement.

  How are you going to get out, boy? There are two doors in this place, but only one is unlocked and only that one leads out. You’ve tried it. What did you find?

  “Nothing,” said Jute, thinking of the stone head rising up out of the stairs. He shuddered. “I’ll find a way.”

  With the little girl also? I heard the two of you whispering in my dreams.

  “Of course. I promised.”

  Jute edged along the wall sideways, one eye on the shadows in the passage. It was unnerving to talk to voices without bodies. What made it even more disturbing was that he wasn’t sure if he wished the voice had a body or not. If it had a body, what sort of body would it have? If it didn’t have a body, how was it talking to him?

  She wasn’t much of a help, was she?

  “Well, no.”

  Might be better to leave her, don’t you think?

  “I promised to get her out of here.”

  Of course, but there’s only the one way out. Up the stairs, and you know what waits on the stairs, don’t you?

  “I’ll figure something out,” said Jute.

  One second if you’re lucky. That’s all the time you’ll have to get by it. And that’s not enough. Especially if you’ve got a little girl along with you. Listen, I know a word.

  Jute crept forward a little from the wall. “A word? What do you mean?”

  A word that’ll close its mouth. A word that’ll put it to sleep, just like me.

  “What word?”