“The sceadus stood silent. Their flesh was as cold and as hard as stone, and in their eyes gleamed the dark light of the jewels. Beauty was theirs, even though every other spawn of Nokhoron Nozhan was loathsome to look upon, so twisted were they by his malice. The sceadus were similar to the Earmdu in form, being tall and lean and noble of face. Nokhoron Nozhan, perceiving that even such creatures could not contain the depth of his malice, took his sword in hand and drew its edge along his side. Three drops of blood fell to the ground, and when they touched the snow, steam rose hissing. There lay blood no longer, but three gems that burned with scarlet fire. He gave a stone to each of the sceadus. In the stones was the incandescence of Nokhoron Nozhan’s malice. With them could the fair things of the world be twisted and corrupted to the will of the darkness.
“Nokhoron Nozhan was gladdened by what he had wrought, and pride swelled his heart. But as he stood gloating on the heights, the Aro came hunting, filled with wrath, for their sister Geronwe had finally wandered free from the darkness, making her way like a witless beast back to the house of dreams.
“Nokhoron Nozhan, perceiving the Aro were few in number, called forth his armies of ogres and trolls carrying axes, wights riding on swift dowoles and wielding iron spears. The folcstan with stone hammers marched in rank upon rank. The sound of their passing was like the clashing of stone, for they had been formed when the light of the jewels had fallen on the rocks of the Ranuin plain. The sceadus were at the forefront of all. Not even the dowole-mounted wights could surpass them, for the sceadus were fleet of foot and flickered like shadows across the landscape.
“Of all the creatures of the dark, only the cobolds were absent from the amassing on the Ranuin plain. But their efforts were not absent, for the little creatures are the masters of the forge, content to burrow under mountains, mining for ore to feed their smelts and smithies. The armor and weapons of Nokhoron Nozhan’s army came from their forges. The top of the northern spur of the Ranuin range was shrouded in smoke, for the cobolds were a crafty folk and cut shafts from deep below the roots of the mountains that rose straight up to the heights. It was through these narrow stone chimneys that the smoke and fume of their furnaces were relieved and guttered into the air.
“The Aro sent Ermannuon and Tanurlin, the captains of the Aro, to parley with Nokhoron Nozhan. Their swords were forged in starfire and they cast no shadow as they walked, so shone their armor and the bright beauty of their visage. The army of the Dark quailed before them and doubt gripped them, though the sceadus stood unmoved.
“Ermannuon called out to Nokhoron Nozhan, to him who had been his elder brother and ever the best and brightest of the Aro. His words fell through the air like music, a shining song of memories and regret. He spoke of the past, of the clean, pure curve of the world, and of Anue standing silent within the shadows of the house of dreams. He spoke with forbearance as, of the Aro, Ermannuon still bore kindness in his heart toward the traitor, for he was next in age to him. But Nokhoron Nozhan answered him with scorn and bade him gaze upon the works of his hands, upon the creatures of his own devising. Then Tanurlin spoke in rage, for the memory of Geronwe weeping within the house of dreams was in his thoughts, and he put his hand to his sword. Thus did the Ranuin War begin.
“The Aro were sorely pressed, for though they were mighty, they were few in number. They swam as if in a sea of darkness, such was the multitude of Nokhoron Nozhan’s army that surged against them. It was then that the Earmdu came to their aid, falling upon the flank of their enemies. The ogres and trolls died beneath their swords in scores, for the Earmdu were of strong arm and keen eye and ranged behind them were their archers. An arrow loosed from an Earmdu bow will never fail to find its mark. The enemy retreated before them, as the Earmdu flung themselves recklessly into the fray. They were filled with such sorrow and despair that they cared not for their own lives. The name of Geronwe was their battle cry, and they died in great numbers.
“The tide was turned, however, and the captain of the Earmdu met Tanurlin, he who commanded the Aro, in the midst of the carnage. And Tanurlin, leaning on his bloodstained sword, gave to the Earmdu long life for the deed they had rendered to the Aro. The captain of the Earmdu paled at his words, knowing full well their sentence of grief was lengthened, for there is no Earmdu living that does not carry the sorrow of Geronwe in their heart. But Tanurlin spoke again and gave into their hands the caretaking of the new peoples of the earth, for he revealed to the Earmdu the existence of man within Anue’s thoughts.
“The remnants of Nokhoron Nozhan’s forces fled away into the mountains and forests of the east in the region of Ranuin. The Aro and Earmdu hunted them all through the long winter but, though many more were slain, just as many escaped into the dark and secret places of the world. The three sceadus hid themselves away and were never found. The hunt was abandoned, for the Earmdu were gravely depleted by their losses on the battlefield and the Aro had already bent their thoughts back to the house of dreams and their sister who wept alone there. Several of the Aro, however, chose to stay in this world, for they elected to watch and wait for the return of the Dark.
“As for Nokhoron Nozhan, no trace of him was found. He fled away into the darkness, gathering it around him like a shroud. From within its depths he slowly recovered his strength and nursed his malice. It was then that he built Daghoron, the fortress of night.”
With these words, the hawk fell silent. They walked on for a while. The wind sighed in the grass, as if it remembered, and there was a chill in the air.
“Incredible,” sputtered Severan. “Amazing. Fantastic. Do you realize that there isn’t a single book that refers to any of this? Not one. At least, no book I’ve read.” He rubbed his hands together in glee. “Just wait until I return to the Stone Tower. No one will believe it. No one.”
“But what’s this to do with me?” said Jute in bewilderment. “I don’t see how it has anything to do with the wind and Hearne and that wretched wihht. You’re confusing me, and I think I’m confused enough.”
“It has everything to do with you. Remember, young Jute, several of the Aro did not return to the house of dreams.” The hawk’s voice soft with weariness and something else. “There were four of them. I remember well. They made their pact on the battlefield. One to guard the earth, one to stand as a sentinel in the midst of fire, one to walk the paths of the sea, and one to watch over the wind.”
The wind sighed in Jute’s ear and he saw in his mind an empty place. No—it was not an empty place, but an enormous plain that stretched away under a night sky. Mountains bounded it on either side, receding to the north. The air was choked with the stench of blood and smoke. The plain’s expanse was littered with the wreckage of war. Immense engines of iron and wood and stone lay broken and burning. The dead were there in countless host, and it seemed there was no inch of bare earth that could be stepped upon without instead stepping upon a corpse. Jute saw four figures standing in the midst of a great throng of dead. They were tall and clad in shining armor. One of them turned, and Jute glimpsed gray eyes and a stern face. The eyes widened slightly, as if in recognition. Jute blinked and found himself standing on the Scarpe Plain once again.
“Aye, that was him,” said the hawk. “But do not look so deeply into the past, for there are other things there, and they would find you of great interest. Do you not see, fledgling? I scarce can believe it myself. I am too old and weary for such things. One of those four have fallen and you have stepped into his place.”
“How can I do such a thing?” said Jute.
“Yes, how?” echoed Severan, looking just as shocked as the boy.
“The how of the matter is done.”
“But how? It was that wretched knife, wasn’t it?”
“Aye,” said the hawk. “It was the knife that killed the wind. In taking his life, the knife drew his essence into itself so that the next blood drawn by the blade would, in turn, receive that essence and so become the next wind. No one knew that such a t
hing could happen. Perhaps this was of Anue’s design, but who can know his mind?”
“The wind,” breathed Severan. “It’s like something out of a strange tale, a fantastic book no one ever believed, up until now.”
“I’m only a boy,” said Jute in dismay. He did not understand, but was only conscious of a great horror. His hand ached. “I’m a thief. I’m not the wind. I steal purses and apples and coins from the pockets of fat merchants. It’s what I’m good at.”
“You may say what you will. The important thing now is keeping you alive long enough so you grow in strength and understanding. The Dark would like nothing more than to find you and cut your throat. The longer you stay alive, the more difficult it will be for that to happen.”
“Then we’d better start moving again, and fast, instead of standing here gossiping like a gaggle of old women.”
It was Ronan. He had been standing behind them for some time, but no one had heard him approach.
“There’s something out there,” he said. “Something wrong. The Dark, or whatever wives’ tale you prefer. Something strange. It’s near, but it doesn’t seem to be aware of us. It’s hunting someone else. But I’m afraid it might scent us.”
“Is it safe enough to continue north?” asked Severan.
“For the moment.”
“Perhaps if we veer somewhat west as well,” said the old man. “We aren’t so far from the sea, are we? The coast road would be close, and there are only a few small villages until Lastane. We might already be north of Lastane. If so, there aren’t hardly half a dozen villages north of Lastane until Harlech. We’d be quite safe.”
Ronan frowned, considering.
“It’d do us well to have a hot meal and a proper sleep at an inn,” continued Severan.
“Yes, please,” said Jute.
“Very well,” said Ronan. He glanced at the hawk, but the bird said nothing.
Across the blowing grasses they went, with the sky turning darker by the minute. This time, however, they angled away toward the west, and the last bit of light in the sky glowed there in evidence of the sun hurrying over the sea. The thunder muttered nearer as if it was a hound growling along their trail.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
FAMILIAR TRACKS
Jute and Severan topped a rise and found themselves gazing down a long slope that fell away to the level plain. High overhead, the hawk teetered from side to side in the sullen sky. The wind rushed by, muttering to itself in words that almost seemed intelligible to Jute. He thought he heard it murmur of the north and stones and the cold. The grass rippled in its passing and pointed north. North. Go north.
Good, said the hawk with satisfaction in Jute’s mind. Your ears are opening. North is where we are going, and north is where we shall stay. There’s safety in the north. The Dark doesn’t like Harlech. It never has, for it cannot get a foothold there. It tried. Once, a long time ago. A man without a name went there and built a tower, but it was thrown down.
Below them, a ways off, Jute saw the dark figure of Ronan standing in the grass. He did not move but seemed to be staring down at the ground.
“Maybe he’s found some animal tracks,” said Severan. He stopped to groan and rub at the small of his back. “A nice, sizzling roast for supper sounds marvelous.”
When they reached Ronan, he was pacing back and forth, still intent on the ground. He did not look up.
“Deer tracks, I hope?” said Severan.
“Hardly,” said the other.
“Well, I wouldn’t mind a rabbit. Do rabbits even leave tracks? They seem so small, so light, but they’re still tasty.”
“They’re horse tracks. Horse and wagons. Some people on foot.” Ronan frowned and rubbed a withered blade of grass between his fingers. “Two days ago, I think. Heading south by east. Probably toward Dolan. But we’re heading north.” He shrugged and then mumbled so only Jute heard him. “No account of ours.”
“North. Let’s get this wretched journey over with.” Severan started off briskly through the waving grass.
“He’s going east,” said the hawk after a moment.
“He’ll figure it out when he glances around. Come on, Jute. We’re a long ways from Harlech yet.”
They walked along in silence through the late afternoon, aside from Severan grumbling to himself every now and then. He had made a fair distance before bothering to look around, congratulating himself on his stamina that kept him so far ahead. But when he glanced back, the two others were already dark shapes trudging away toward the horizon. He had stumbled after them, puffing and blowing. They had had the grace not to say anything, though the hawk had chuckled out loud.
Are you going to ride on my shoulder all day? asked Jute in his mind.
If you care to remember, said the hawk, I have been flying for most of the day. At any rate, I enjoy seeing things from down here. It’s fascinating to observe from a man’s point of view. For a while, at least.
I will learn how to fly, won’t I?
Do birds have wings? Of course.
Well, then, how about now?
I don’t think so.
Why not?
The hawk clucked in irritation, sounding like (in Jute’s estimation) nothing more than a pompous old hen. Flying, my overeager fledgling, is not quickly learned. It is painful, for it invariably involves a great deal of falling from heights. This grassy earth is soft enough, but it’ll feel like rock when you come hurtling down.
I could stay low. Just a few feet off the ground.
The real danger is not in falling. The real danger is the Dark. When learning to fly—when learning any sort of thing that involves a great deal of, hmm, you might call it magic or power (though both words do little justice to what goes on)—the process can be messy. We shall wait until we reach Harlech. Harlech is safe. Er, safer.
Messy? Jute looked at the hawk in confusion. What do you mean? Is it messy like eating a peach?
No. It’s messy in that it scatters power here and there, like cupping your hands around a candle but having the light escape between your fingers. And when that happens, it can be seen. Things take notice.
Things?
Things. Creatures. The Dark.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
SMEDE GETS TOO GREEDY
Smede opened the curtains and was surprised to find there was still daylight outside. Twilight, more likely, but it was still daylight of sorts. He had had the curtains made years ago. Time and moths had nibbled holes in the wool, but the folds were so thick that they let no light in once the curtains were drawn. Smede rarely ever opened the curtains, and when he did, it was usually only to see if it was raining or to dislodge the dead bodies of moths that got lost among the folds and never found their way out. He enjoyed seeing them drift down to the floor.
It was not that he actually disliked sunlight. It was that, as the years had gone by, he had grown to consider sunlight fickle. One moment it could be shining brightly, and the next moment it could be sulking behind a cloud. It was not sufficient for his work. He needed a dependable source of light. Candles. Candles were best. He could sit for hours at his desk, scribbling his way through the Guild accounts with a nice fat candle perched on the desk, next to his ledger. Candlelight made wet ink glisten beautifully. And it lent a wonderful glow to gold. But gold on its own glowed enough to be seen in the dark.
“It’s the only reliable light there is,” Smede said aloud. He took a last disapproving look at the sunlight and the blue sky outside, just visible in slices and wedges past the chimneys and rooftops, and then whisked the curtains closed. There was work to be done and he didn’t need to fritter away his time staring out the window. He sat back down at his desk. But no matter how hard he tried, Smede could not concentrate. The numbers before him refused to add up. In a fit of temper, he jabbed his pen so hard against the paper that the nib snapped and flicked ink at his face.
“Bother.”
A large chest sat in the corner. Smede’s eyes wandered over t
o it.
“Not that I’d think of doing anything like that,” he said to himself. “Mustn’t even think of it. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. Three fifties and naught point seven two percent compounded weekly for six weeks is—blast this pen. Nine twenty-eight, carry the remainder. I wonder if he’ll come back?”
Smede shuddered and looked everywhere in the room except for the chest.
“Mustn’t think of that. Three point seventy-five percent is too low. Four percent would be much more suitable for any merchant. The Silentman is too soft on ‘em. That leaves nine two five point three —no—nine two five point two eight. Perhaps he’ll never come back? He might be dead.”
If truth be told, Smede had a habit of talking to himself. This was born out of a life lived mostly in solitude, a life lived in the sole company of ledgers and candlelight and stacks of gold piled on his counting desk. Smede didn’t notice when his thought became speech and his speech became thought. It was a habit that could have been broken by a rigorous regimen of spending one hour a day drinking ale in any pub. The habit, however, had been getting worse over the last several months.
“Yes, he might be dead. Drat this pen. But then the Silentman’ll be free and clear. And all that gold. He’s got it hidden away, hidden like his face. May the shadow take his black heart. It’s our gold. But he doesn’t know he’s dead, does he? No, he doesn’t.”
And with these perplexing words, Smede found himself standing at the chest. The ward woven into its wood buzzed once in warning and then relaxed at his touch. He opened the lid.
“He might not be dead and he might not. He certainly looked dead. But the Silentman doesn’t know that.”
The chest was empty except for one thing. At the bottom lay a folded black cloak.
“The Silentman doesn’t know everything, does he? No, he doesn’t.”
Smede settled the cloak around his shoulders. It did not look like much. It was just a shabby old cloak.
The Shadow at the Gate Page 40
