The Shadow of Malabron

by Thomas Wharton

  She turned to lead the way, and Will was about to go with her when he remembered Moth’s sword. The archer had left it lying on the shingle and had apparently forgotten it. While the others followed Rowen, Will turned back and climbed down to the shore. The sword lay there, like something cast up by the waves. Will picked it up by the scabbard, which felt ice cold to the touch, and perfectly smooth. He had been right: the scabbard was made of a lightweight black stone, or something that felt very much like stone.

  Will meant to tuck the weapon under his arm and return it straightaway to Moth, but something made him hesitate. He touched the hilt, which was as cold as the scabbard, and like it shone with a lustrous darkness blacker than night. It seemed as if hilt and scabbard were one single piece, and now Will wondered whether there really was a blade concealed inside.

  “Are you not coming, Will Lightfoot?”

  Startled, he looked up to see Shade at the edge of the trees, regarding him with curiosity.

  “In a moment,” Will said with a twinge of anger. Why did everyone have to watch him all the time?

  “That is the Nightwanderer’s sword.”

  “I know that. You needn’t wait.”

  Shade seemed about to reply, then he turned and loped back into the trees. When he was gone, Will fixed his attention on the sword. If anything, the wolf’s interruption had made him even more eager to solve the mystery of the archer’s strange blade. He hesitated a moment longer, holding his breath, and then he drew the sword from the scabbard.

  The blade made a sharp ringing sound as it slid out, but unlike the ring Will’s knife made, this sound did not fade quickly away. Instead it lingered in his ears, a faint metallic hum that was vaguely troubling. He held the sword before him and was disappointed to see that there was nothing unusual about it, as far as he could tell. The blade looked rough and dull-edged, not polished and reflective like his own knife, as though it was made of some raw, impure ore. Will turned the sword this way and that, trying to catch some kind of gleam on its surface. There was none, but as he peered closely at the blade he noticed that the sword’s eerie hum had become a kind of low vibration, more a warmth in the hand than a sound. He could feel it against his palm, growing to a pulsing heat, and as he continued to stare at the blade, he felt a hot, exhilarating dread grow inside him, as if in answer.

  There was great power in this sword. With it he could do … wondrous and terrifying things.

  From behind him someone spoke his name. Will knew before he turned round who it would be, as if the sword had summoned him.

  There are fires in the earth, deep beneath the snow.

  — Legends of the Northlands

  NEAR HIM ON THE SHORE was the white-haired man in red from his dreams. He was sitting on a bleached driftwood log before a small fire. With a long stick he was turning the crackling bits of firewood. When he looked up, Will’s first instinct was to run, but the man’s eyes, so like Moth’s, held him.

  “Who are you?” Will said.

  “You already know,” the man said. His voice was like Moth’s as well, musical and haunting. It made Will want to stay, and listen. It was a voice that promised to speak of important things, wonders, mysteries. A voice you waited eagerly to hear speak again. “No doubt you have been told stories about me.”

  “You’re the…” Will began, but fear took him by the throat and choked his voice.

  “Do you know why some call me the Angel?” Lotan asked.

  Will gave no answer. He searched the trees, desperately hoping to see Shade or the others, even though he knew somehow that he was no longer where they were. The Angel set down his stick and rose to his feet. The fire seemed to dim as he stood over it.

  “I serve the one true lord of this world,” Lotan said. “I am the emissary of Malabron, his right hand and his shadow. I stand at the end of stories, and I bring them all before my master. As I shall bring you.”

  “No,” Will said, shaking his head. “They … my friends won’t let that happen.”

  Lotan smiled coldly.

  “Your friends fear what they do not understand. They fear you, as well, Will Lightfoot. They fear what you will become. Why do you think the old man brought you out here, into the wild, as far as he could from his quiet little land? He could have found another way, surely. But instead he dragged you on this foolish journey that takes you further from home with every step.”

  “That’s not true,” Will shouted. “He’s trying to help me.”

  “Is he? Well now you see where his plans have brought you. Perhaps you were better off before you met him. Before you met any of them.”

  The man’s calm, almost gentle voice dulled Will’s fear, compelling him to listen. Did the loremaster really know what he was doing? If this is a dream, I should be able to end it, he told himself desperately. I should be able to wake up.

  Something cold stung the back of his neck. Large, hoary flakes of snow were drifting slowly down from the sunless sky. They fell into the water but instead of vanishing they began to cover it in a layer of ice, like frost growing across a windowpane.

  “The truth is,” Lotan went on, “your companions have doomed themselves. The old fool who led you on this aimless quest knows that, if he knows little else. He knows there is really no hope, and yet he carries on. One can admire that. Despite the certain fate that awaits him, and the others.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Lotan came closer, through the snow that was falling faster and thicker now but did not settle on him. There were no flakes in his hair, on his eyelashes, anywhere.

  “The Lord of Story will punish them,” Lotan said, “for keeping you from him. In the end there is nowhere to hide, no story he cannot enter. Your friends will learn that truth, and then they will die.”

  Will raised Moth’s sword in both hands and held it between him and Lotan. He felt its power burn through him like fire.

  “Go away,” he shouted, his voice breaking. “Go away, or I will kill you.”

  As Lotan’s gaze fell upon the sword, his eyes flickered with surprise and even fear. It happened so fast Will wasn’t even sure he had really seen it. An instant later the cold smile had returned to Lotan’s face.

  “If you wish to destroy me, Will Lightfoot, then come. But know that I am the gate you seek. No one enters or leaves the realms but by my master’s will. And I am the way to him.”

  Will raised the sword and with a scream he lunged at the Angel, who stood his ground without moving. Will swung the blade with all his strength, and went staggering to one side as the blade passed through empty air.

  Lotan had vanished into the swirling snow.

  Then Will saw that the lake and the island had also disappeared. Instead he found himself standing in a high place, far above a land of forests and hills. On the distant horizon the sun was setting in a red bank of cloud. Will craned his neck to look down, and saw, through the falling snow, a great cliff that plummeted in a sheer drop for hundreds of feet to a valley filled with black shadows.

  He scrambled away from the terrifying drop, and once more snow swirled around him. He groped his way through it, and there was the Angel again, calmly standing before him, a hand held out beckoningly.

  “This is already my master’s story,” he said, with something almost like sadness in his voice. “It can end only one way.”

  Will raised the sword once more, but then slowly let it fall.

  “No,” he whispered, hanging his head.

  “For the sake of your friends, come with me now.”

  Will choked back tears. As he stepped forward, a sharp stabbing pain bit into his wrist. With a gasp he tried to pull his arm away but could not. Something he couldn’t see was holding him. He struggled, and cried out.

  He was standing on the shore of the island, Moth’s sword in his hand. The Angel was nowhere to be seen. There was no snow falling. At his side stood Shade, regarding him with concern.

  “Am I dreaming?” Will muttered groggily.r />
  “I would say no,” the wolf replied.

  “Did you … did you bite me, Shade?” Will asked, rubbing his wrist, which he suddenly noticed was throbbing with a dull pain.

  “Only a little,” the wolf said. “You were talking to someone who was not there. You were frightened. I tried to speak to you, but you would not listen.”

  Will placed a hand on the wolf’s shaggy ruff.

  “I’m glad you’re here, Shade,” he said.

  “So am I, Will Lightfoot. And I am sorry about the bite. I was not going to eat you.”

  “I know that. Listen, Shade. I have to go now, by myself, before the others come back. If they stay with me, something terrible is coming. For you too. I don’t want that to happen.”

  “Neither do I,” a voice said, and Will looked up to see Moth at the edge of the trees. “Put down the sword now.”

  The archer’s voice was cold and commanding. Like a dry twig the power of the blade seemed to snap in two, and Will found he had no choice but to obey. Both sword and scabbard slipped from his hands and clattered on the stones.

  “Get away from it,” Moth said, advancing down the slope.

  “I only wanted to see,” Will muttered, stumbling backwards. “I didn’t know…”

  Moth lunged and with one swift movement he had the scabbard in his hand and the blade back within it. As he buckled the sword back onto his belt, Will saw him grimace with pain. The colour drained from his face as though that terrible blade had been thrust into him.

  “I should never have left this,” Moth said under his breath, and then he fixed Will with a grave look. “I have been far too careless.”

  “I was going to bring it to you,” Will mumbled, lowering his head. He was sorry for what he had done, but also angry at Moth for taking the sword from him, and the intensity of his anger frightened him.

  Moth placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “Do not trouble yourself,” he said. His face looked aged, and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. “It is my fault. I should have warned you about the sword when I first saw you were curious about it.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  Moth laughed soundlessly.

  “Only what is wrong with this world,” he said. “The blade is forged of gaal. It is deadly to storyfolk, and dangerous to most others.”

  “How can you carry it around, if…” Will broke off as understanding flooded through him. “It hurts you. All the time.”

  Moth swept the sword out of sight under his cloak.

  “I am able to bear it,” he said, “because the hilt and scabbard are made of dragon bone. The one substance that can shield against the power of the gaal.”

  “You’ve been searching for him,” Will said. “To use the sword against him.”

  He heard a sound and saw that the others had joined them on the shore.

  “I saw the Angel,” Will said.

  “He was here?” Rowen asked, her eyes wide with fear.

  “I don’t know. It must have been a dream, but it was so real.”

  “When you took the sword you came closer to the Shadow Realm,” Moth said. “Lotan walks there as well as here. He can be many miles away, but all too close.”

  He handed Will a small leather flask.

  “Drink this,” he said. “It is called everenth. It will restore some of your strength and help you resist, if Lotan appears to you again.”

  Will took a tentative sip. The drink tasted slightly bitter, like unsweetened tea, but almost immediately he felt a warmth flowing into him. He took another sip and handed back the flask. Then, at Pendrake’s bidding, he told them what had happened when he held the sword, and at last admitted the dreams of Lotan he’d been having since he first arrived in the Bourne.

  As he described what he had seen it occurred to him that Lotan hadn’t been wearing the shrowde cloak.

  “He revealed himself to you as he once was,” Moth said. “Morrigan and I knew the Angel long before he took that name. He and I will meet again, Will, but not today. Keeping you out of his clutches is what matters most for the present. But I promise you, until you are safely beyond the reach of these shadows, I will be here, no matter what.“

  “I should have told you about my dreams before,” Will said. “I’m sorry. I’ve made things worse.”

  The toymaker had listened in grim silence and now he asked Will to repeat what he had said about the high cliff.

  “There is only one place I know of like that,” Pendrake said, when Will had finished.

  “The Great Rampart,” Rowen said eagerly. “I’ve seen it on Grandfather’s maps. It’s on the far side of the Shining Mountains. A long wall of rock that falls sheer a thousand feet to the valley of the River Bel.”

  “Facing the setting sun,” Pendrake added.

  “What if it’s an omen,” Rowen said. “Maybe we shouldn’t go there … or maybe it means we will. Maybe there’s a farhold there…”

  “That’s the problem with omens,” Pendrake said. “They can be dangerous to interpret. And when you start looking for them, they turn up everywhere. I think it’s better to keep on our own path, until we know more.”

  “One thing we know with too much certainty,” said Moth, “is that Lotan is still on our trail.”

  “He’s afraid of the sword,” Will said, remembering. “I saw it in his eyes. That’s why you carry it.”

  “Among you I think only Master Pendrake knows the tale,” Moth said, glancing at the others.

  “Fever iron,” the toymaker said, nodding, and then he closed his eyes and recited:

  “In the land where hope comes not

  The great wheel turns unceasing,

  Clawing out the secret ore

  To feed the howling forges…”

  He opened his eyes.

  “It is deep, ancient innumith,” Pendrake said, “the lifeblood of story, melded with fire and spellcraft into a weapon.”

  “Sometimes the arrows and knives of the Nightbane are made with it,” Finn said. “Though why it doesn’t kill them…”

  “It does kill them, eventually,” Moth said. “Anyone wounded by such a weapon falls into a fever and madness. This gives the Nightbane a berserk strength, for a time. The fever began to touch you, Will. It is what made you attack Lotan, which is exactly what he wished. His goal was to draw you ever closer to his master’s realm, so that he could find you in this one.”

  “Why do you keep the sword?” Rowen asked the archer. “Why not bury it, or melt it in a forge…”

  She broke off and her eyes widened. Will saw that she had understood. The sword was the only thing that could harm Lotan.

  “I will be rid of it when it has served its purpose,” Moth said coldly.

  Overhead, Morrigan gave a loud caw and swooped down from the branch she had been perched on, to settle on Moth’s shoulder. Together they moved away into the dappled shade under the trees.

  A soft rain began to fall. Shade had already found shelter, and now he led them across the island to the largest tree, which leaned out at a precipitous angle over the water. There was a bowl-shaped bower among the leaves, its encircling walls formed of woven branches, like a roofed bird’s nest. Something had perhaps lived here, but the bower was deserted now. They climbed up the thick sloping trunk to reach it, and settled in to share the berries they had gathered.

  Will huddled in one corner, cold and miserable. He noticed Pendrake looking at him with concern.

  “You’ve felt the power of the Shadow Realm, Will,” the old man said. “That is not easy to bear. Moth and Morrigan have carried it with them for years. Their story and yours have become intertwined, and there are things you deserve to know. Perhaps I should have told you earlier, but I did not wish to burden you any more than necessary.”

  “You know why they’ve been searching for the Angel,” Will said.

  Pendrake nodded.

  “I know some of the tale,” he said, and closed his eyes for a moment, as if ga
thering the story from within himself. Then he opened them again, and began.

  He told them of the shining city of Eleel-upon-the-sea, and of Seelah, the weaver of wondrous tapestries, and her brother Ethain, the smith. He spoke of Lotan, the noble prince to whom Seelah was betrothed, and how he went away to war against the forces of the Night King, and how Seelah waited for him, and wove her greatest work, a tapestry that told the history of the long war. And how at long last Lotan returned, but as a betrayer, leading an army of Nightbane under concealing spellcraft to the unsuspecting city. Seelah rode out to meet him, and she discovered the truth, but before she could warn her people, Lotan changed her into a raven. She escaped from him and flew back to Eleel, but her voice came out in harsh croaks, and no one understood her warnings, except her brother Ethain.

  “By then it was too late,” Pendrake said.

  As the sun rose, Lotan led the enemy through the opened gates. The city’s last day began in fear and fire. Where there had been music and light, cries of horror rose to the sky. Blood stained the once-gleaming stones. The city itself was unshaped. The bright towers became jagged black spires of fear. When it was clear that Eleel was lost, Ethain and Seelah fled with the other survivors. And so they became the Shee n’ashoon, the Hidden Folk, and the Green Court began its long wandering. But while she was bound to Lotan by spellcraft, Seelah could not remain with her people. She went into exile. And Ethain went with her.”

  A shadow filled the entrance to the bower. Moth stood there a moment, looking back, then ducked his head and entered.

  “Lotan was once as I am,” he said, sitting beside Will. “I knew that a blade of fever iron could tear apart the spells that knit borrowed flesh over his nothingness. And so I forged one, and carried it with me wherever we went.”

  “The two of you went searching for him,” Finn said.

  “We took new names, darker names to hide our true origin. We searched for many years, but found no trace of Lotan. It was said he had perished in the fall of Eleel, but we knew he had lived on, because the spell upon Seelah was not broken. Then we began to hear rumours of the Angel, and we wondered if he was Lotan returned, though we could never find him. We searched, and many years went by, and wherever we went the curse of the gaal turned the hearts of good folk against us. At last we sought refuge and peace in the Bourne. I thought we would stay there for ever, Will, until you came.”