The Shadow at the Gate

by Christopher Bunn

  “I once had the good fortune to see Min the Morn,” said the ghost. “Now, that was a horse. One blow from his hoof could split the earth in two. There was an old story that he shattered the northern ranges by galloping across the mountains. Of course, you might think a horse is only a horse, of course. Just because you think you have all the facts, and you might have them all, doesn’t mean you have the answers.”

  The hawk was growing more and more restive in his surliness on Jute’s shoulder. With a grunt of disgust, the bird launched into the air. It was then that he saw the smoke.

  “Look!” The hawk’s voice came down clear and thin to them. “Look there!”

  Smoke stained the horizon. It was difficult to discern against the dimming of the early evening sky. Ronan’s face turned pale.

  “A campfire, I daresay,” said the ghost. “Perhaps they’ll have a hot supper for us?”

  “You don’t eat,” said Jute. “Besides, they might not be friendly.”

  “Nonsense. We’re in the duchy of Thule, aren’t we? Hospitable folk. No one ever goes hungry in Thule. I remember having had excellent meals in this duchy.”

  With those words, the ghost started off toward the smoke. Ronan and Jute trailed after it. Above them, the hawk soared higher.

  “Mutton,” continued the ghost. “Sizzling over the flames. Fresh bread. You haven’t tasted bread until you’ve had it baked hot in coals. Of course, the taste is improved by ravenous hunger. You’ll understand when you’re old, boy. There aren’t many pleasures left in life at my age. Oh, don’t get me wrong—scholarly work is my one true pleasure. There’s nothing like hunting down an ancient word and discovering its sound, its letters, its meaning, but a good meal’s a close second.”

  Hurry. The hawk’s voice keened through Jute’s mind. One is still alive!

  “We must hurry!” said Jute. “There’s someone still alive!”

  He did not answer the ghost’s questions, for he could hear the urgency in the hawk’s voice and the sound of the wind. The wind knew. He could feel it blowing through his thoughts. The ghost hurried along at his side. Behind them, Ronan walked, but his face was set and white and his pace faltered as if he was reluctant to discover what lay ahead. Thunder rumbled overhead. Jute felt a drop of rain on his face, and then it began to rain in earnest. It was a dreary sort of rain that painted out the sky and plastered the grass onto the ground.

  Jute could no longer see the smoke anymore, or the hawk, for that matter. But he could still feel the wind in his mind, blowing his thoughts forward. How odd. It almost felt like the wind was pushing his thoughts forward into the haze. Pushing them forward so that he could see with them. But not with his eyes. It was the strangest sensation. The wind inside his mind blew harder as if in agreement. Jute pushed with his own mind, pushing his thoughts forward to see past his eyes, to see past the obscurity of the rain. A picture formed in his mind. Flames hissing and dying in the rain. The blackened ruins of wagons.

  Stop that.

  The hawk’s voice was sharp.

  Why? said Jute, bewildered. Every time I do something, you tell me to stop.

  Seeing with one’s mind is a dangerous thing. Unless you are skilled at it, and you are not, then it is like lighting a fire in the darkness. It attracts unwanted attention. And right now we do not want any such attention.

  The wind subsided to an apologetic murmur in Jute’s mind. He could smell smoke in the damp air. The ground fell away in a gentle slope, down past a trampled sweep of grass to a hollow. A spring lay in the middle, edged by bushes and cattails. Smoke guttered up from dying flames. The charred timbers of wagons stood gaunt in the rain, skeletons of what they once had been. And there were bodies.

  Jute swallowed hard. Beside him, the ghost gasped. They both paused at the top of the rise, but Ronan gave a hoarse cry and stumbled past them. He staggered like a drunken man. The rain hissed on the last of the flames. Ronan howled, his face raised to the sky like a dog. He swung around, looking this way and that, his eyes blank and his head shaking from side to side as if in confusion. Bodies sprawled everywhere: Men and women. Young and old. Here, a girl had been cut down at the water’s edge, a spilled armful of laundry around her trampled into the mud. There, an old man lay tangled in the shattered steps of a wagon. The wind gusted through and blew embers out onto the surface of the spring where they died, sputtering and snapping. The hawk swept down.

  One is still alive.

  “One’s still alive!” blurted out Jute.

  There. By the cook-pot.

  “Here!” said Jute.

  An older woman lay crumpled on the ground, her hands outstretched as if she was reaching for something that was gone. Ronan stumbled past Jute and fell to his knees at the woman’s side. Hands shaking, he brushed her hair back from her face. Her eyes opened. She stared up at the sky and then her gaze fell on Ronan’s face. A smile trembled on her mouth and then was gone.

  “Declan,” she said.

  He said nothing, could say nothing. Her hand crept out to grasp his.

  “They took her.” Her fingers tightened on his, impossibly strong. Her knuckles whitened. “Find your sister.”

  Still, he could not speak, though his tears fell on her face. She stared straight up at his face, but she saw him no longer. It was as if she gazed past him into some other sky that was not the gray, rainy sky of Tormay.

  “Ever since I was a girl I’ve dreamt of it,” she said. But she did not speak of what she had dreamed, and then she was still.

  They carried all of the bodies to a wagon that had not been burned as badly as the others. Jute had seen dead bodies before. Once, an old drunk had fallen out the second-story window of the Goose and Gold and broken his neck on the street below. The Juggler’s children had gathered around to gawk and giggle nervously, daring each other to touch the dead man’s hand. And then there had been the winter when a horrible bleeding cough had made its rounds of the city. It had restricted itself mainly to the poorer neighborhoods of the city, particularly Fishgate and south of it. Jute could still remember the carts rolling by, filled with corpses like cordwood. But he had been more fascinated than horrified. Now, however, his stomach turned over with nausea. He was only strong enough to carry the lighter bodies, and these were the children. His eyes blurred, and it was Lena’s head lolling against his arm.

  They set the wagon alight and let it burn.

  “Can’t let the scavengers get them,” said Ronan dully.

  Two of the bodies still lay by the spring: the woman and an older man found fallen nearby. Ronan began digging with his sword in the muddy earth. The other two tried to help him, but he turned on them, his face twisted in fury.

  “Come away, Jute,” said the hawk. “This isn’t our place.”

  The boy climbed up to the top of the rise on the other side of the dell. The ghost drifted after him. Behind them, smoke billowed up as the flames rose higher. But the wind was in their face, blowing out of the northwest, and they could not smell the stench of burning flesh. The hawk settled on Jute’s shoulder and furled his wings.

  “They were his family,” said Jute after a while.

  “Yes,” said the hawk.

  “I never knew my family. I don’t remember.” Jute paused, staring down at his fingers. They were filthy with dirt and soot and something that looked like blood. He ripped up a clump of grass and scrubbed at his hands.

  “What sort of land is Harlech?” Jute said, looking up. He swallowed hard. His stomach felt empty and he found himself missing Lena and the other children. “I’ve heard Harlech’s a dreadful place, where everyone’s a wizard. That the land itself’s alive. No one from Harlech ever comes to Hearne.”

  “On the contrary,” said the hawk, his voice gentle. “It’s a beautiful land. Moors and hills and deep valleys dark with forests. The sea there’s cold and the cliffs of Harlech are as sharp as knives, honed by the waves and the wind. As for wizards, I think there’re no more wizards in that land than could be
found in any other duchy.”

  “I’ve never met anyone from Harlech,” said Jute.

  “Of course you have. The old man, Severan.”

  “Severan? You’re right. I’d forgotten that's where he came from.”

  “I think I’ve even seen the house he spoke of. Once, when I was flying along the coast. It’s more of a cottage. It perches on a cliff overlooking the sea, about as far from Hearne as a man can get.”

  “Hearne,” said the ghost thoughtfully. “I have some memories of that place. Now, where did I put them?”

  The hawk’s claws suddenly tightened on Jute’s shoulder. His head swiveled this way and that.

  “What is it?” said Jute.

  “Nothing,” said the hawk. “I just thought I heard something strange for a moment. It was nothing. I must’ve been mistaken.”

  Ronan trudged up the slope below them. His shoulders were bowed.

  “I must leave you here,” said Ronan. “Please. Release me.”

  “But I can’t,” said Jute helplessly. “I have nothing to do with what binds you.”

  “He wasn’t the one who bound you,” said the hawk. “The sea doesn’t give her gifts lightly. There’s always a price. You know that.”

  “Don’t you understand?” shouted Ronan, turning on them in fury. “That’s my family down there! Those bodies burning on the pyre. My father and my mother—” His voice broke. When he spoke again, his tone was quiet. “Only my sister’s left, and she’s been taken. The tracks lead away from here. I can follow them. I can find her. She’s all I have.”

  “If that’s your family,” said Jute, “then who are you?”

  “My name’s Declan Farrow,” said the man who had been Ronan. He said the words slowly. The name came reluctantly, as if he had not spoken it for many years. “My name’s Declan Farrow, though I haven’t been called that for more than fifteen years. Fifteen years I threw away. I can’t even remember my sister’s face. She was a tiny girl when I left.”

  “Declan Farrow!” said the hawk. “I should’ve known.”

  “Release me, Jute. You hold my life in your hand. Let me go.”

  “I have nothing to do with this,” said Jute in great bewilderment.

  Declan groaned out loud. “I’m bound fast. I can’t willingly desert you, for I’m compelled by a power that cares nothing about what happens to me. But you can help me. Come with me to find my sister.”

  “No!” said the hawk, alarmed at these words. “I’m grieved by your misfortune, Farrow, but your sorrow and the death of your family truly mean little in light of what lies before us. I’d see all of Tormay dead to save this boy from the Dark. And you’re bound to this same purpose, are you not?”

  “Yes,” said Declan, choking on the word. “I’m bound fast and my will isn’t my own. Jute, listen to me. I turned my back on my family years ago. I was a fool and gave them up for what I thought were better things. Fame and fortune won by my sword. But they’re worthless in comparison to what I once had. And now there’s only my sister. Would you have me turn my back on my family once again?”

  “Er,” said Jute, thinking of Lena taking his place in the Silentman’s cell.

  “You chose to leave your family,” said the hawk angrily. "Would you have us pay for that choice?"

  “I only want one last chance.”

  “We all want one last chance,” said the ghost. “All of us have regrets. I can’t remember mine, but I’m sure I’ve got ‘em.”

  Declan’s hand went to his throat. Something lay there—a length of wire or fine chain gleaming against his dark skin. Light shone on a smooth round stone. A pearl. He pulled at the wire as if it choked him, but when he saw Jute’s eye on him, he twitched his cloak closed to hide what lay around his neck.

  “Just one more chance,” Declan said. He spoke more to himself than to anyone else.

  “Well, boy?” said the hawk harshly.

  The wind blew this way and that, as if saying it would be happy going anywhere. Anywhere that Jute went.

  “We aren’t far behind them, are we?” said the boy.

  Declan looked up, hope in his eyes.

  “No,” he said. “No, we aren’t.”

  “This is a bad choice,” said the hawk. “The only thing that matters is preserving Jute’s life, the life of the anbeorun. If the Wind falls into the hands of the Dark, then Tormay will surely be lost.”

  “What’s the difference between one or many?”

  “If one falls, then so be it, if many shall be saved,” said the hawk.

  The hawk spoke angrily and the words rang in the air and in Jute’s mind. But even as the boy considered this and the unpleasant thought of falling into the hands of the Dark, he felt the wind blow through his mind. It seemed pleased. Excited. And curious. As if it wished to see where the hunt would go.

  The hawk snorted in annoyance.

  “We shouldn’t waste any time, should we?” said Jute.

  The rain eased then, subsiding to a drizzle and then a mist. Oddly enough, the wind shifted until it was blowing out of the southeast.

  “Perfect,” said Declan. He tried to smile, but could not. “We’ll catch their scent and they’ll not have ours.”

  “Hmmph,” said the hawk, and Jute could feel anger in the grip of the bird’s claws on his shoulders.

  They headed southeast with the wind in their faces. Declan moved along with a fast loping stride and it was all Jute could do to keep up with him. His side ached and his lungs burned. He could hear the ghost nattering on about toads and other ingredients dictated by an ancient recipe for invisibility.

  “Of course,” said the ghost, “with that combination of ingredients, if you get either the burdock or the toad juice out of ratio, you’re either dead or paralyzed.”

  Jute, stop panting like that, said the hawk.

  It was the first thing the bird had said in over two hours.

  I can’t help it.

  Yes, you can.

  I’m tired.

  The shadow of the hawk slid across the ground in front of Jute, who looked up to see the bird sailing through the sky overhead.

  Does the wind ever tire?

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  THE VINDICTIVENESS OF CATS

  Smede shivered in the alley across the street from his house. It was raining again and he was cold. His teeth chattered. Something rustled behind him in the alley and he shrank back in the shadows. He groped in his pocket for his knife, but then relaxed. It was only a cat. A bedraggled little cat hurrying by, dodging raindrops and downspouts. The cat gave him a cross look as if to say it had no regard for humans stupid enough to be out on such a night. The cat trotted around a corner and was gone.

  Smede gnawed his lip and stared across the street at his house. With the rain and the general state of disarray he was in, he looked like a shapeless lump of shadow. He blinked and then squinted. There. A hint of movement in the window across the street. The third-story window. It had been the merest of movements. Smede whimpered, thinking there in the dark. All that gold. Locked away in his strongbox. So close and so far away. He dared not go up to his rooms. Surely a blade and death waited for him there. The Silentman had put the word out. The Guild was on the lookout. Death stalked him on the streets of Hearne. His master was gone.

  “Curse them all,” muttered Smede to himself. “Oh, what’ll I do? I’m all alone. Where shall I go?”

  If he left the city, surely he could find safety in the south. Somewhere far away. Vomaro, perhaps. Harth. The Guild did hardly any business in Harth. But he couldn’t leave his gold. He couldn’t.

  And then Smede’s thoughts turned to the house on Stalu Street. Where he had first met his master. His master was gone, but he could find solace there. Sanctuary from the Guild. The wards still held around that house, though the ancient spell was broken.

  An idea sparked in his head.

  Smede grinnned, his head bobbing up and down. A downspout trickled onto his head but he did not noti
ce. He chuckled nastily to himself and then made his way down the alley, scurrying like an oversized rat. Behind him, the cat cautiously stuck its head around a corner and watched him go. It scrubbed at its nose with one paw as if it sought to rid itself of a bad odor. Then, with one last careful look around, the cat followed the little man.

  There was a chill in the air that hinted of winter. The sleeting rain shivered as it fell, as if it were considering such matters as ice and snow. The inns were doing a roaring business. Light and laughter spilled out into the streets, escaping through quickly opened and shut doors and from behind windows steamed blind with the potent brew of conviviality, roaring fires, and hot ale. It was the perfect night in which not to be seen, particularly if one kept to dark alleys.

  It was not long before Smede reached Stalu Street. He paused at a corner, hugging the wall. The one drawback of the house’s location was its proximity to the Goose and Gold tavern. Too many of the Thieves Guild in and out of that inn. But the drawback had always had a benefit as well. The Juggler’s children. There were always plenty of children in the vicinity.

  Smede was about to cross the street when a sudden clamor made him shrink back. The noise grew louder, and then its source came into view. A group of men staggering up the street. Drunk, bellowing out a song about a goatherder from Vomaro. The men slipped and splashed through the puddles, oblivious to the cold rain. Smede recognized one of them. A dock enforcer. From memory, Smede summoned up a page from his accounting book. Cod Harston. Twenty coppers a month from the Guild. And, no doubt, whatever else Harston could skim from his work.

  “One more!” bellowed Harston, interrupting the song. “One more. My throat ain’t up to all this singing. I’m dried out somethin’ terrible.”

  “M’woman’ll be waiting up, see,” said another man.

  “An’ a heavy hand she has.”