The Shadow of Malabron

by Thomas Wharton

  He broke off, and Will saw understanding come into his face.

  “You’re going to the keep…”

  “We are,” Pendrake growled. “And by the time we get there, clearly the whole town will know about it.”

  “You would do that for us…” Harke faltered. He coughed loudly and rubbed his good eye. “Well, then, you’ll need something to eat before you set out…”

  Will and the others followed him to the kitchen and found Ulla there, already cutting bread and setting out bowls.

  “You’ve got a fox’s ears, my love,” Harke said.

  “Of course you’re going with them, Ragnar,” she said as she dished out porridge.

  “No he’s not, Mother,” said Freya, standing in the doorway. She wore a tunic of chain mail over her clothes, and bands of steel at her wrists. Her hammer, and a long knife, hung at her belt.

  “Freya…” Ulla began. “Taking watch duty is one thing, but the keep…”

  “Father, you know I should be the one to go. You’re not—” She caught herself, and her ruddy face grew even more crimson.

  Harke’s hand went to the thigh of his bad leg.

  “I know, Freya,” he said quietly. “I’m not up to such adventures any more.”

  “You should stay with your family, Freya,” said Pendrake. “They need you here.”

  “Let her guide you, old friend,” Harke said. “The streets are treacherous, and not only because of the nightcrawlers. The werefire has collapsed pavements and walls all over the city. There are cracks and holes everywhere, and more open every night. Freya knows her way better than anyone.”

  When they were all ready to leave, Ulla went up to Pendrake and her daughter and silently embraced them in turn. She gave Will and Rowen a look of concern, and appeared to be about to say something, when a faint cry from another room drew her attention.

  “Thorri often has bad dreams now,” she said, hurrying from the room.

  “And wakes to find most of them true,” Harke muttered under his breath. Will thought about the dreams both he and Jess had had after their mother died. How they would dream she was still alive but had gone away somewhere, and they couldn’t find her. And when they woke up they would remember she was really gone and cry as if they had just been told for the first time.

  Will and the others, with Freya before them, left the house and crossed the courtyard. When they were all through, Harke shut it behind them without a word. They heard the bolt grate across and fall heavily into place.

  When Freya had lit her lantern, they pulled their cloaks close about them against the night’s chill, and set off along the deserted street. Dawn was not far off, but a thick pall of fog or smoke sat over the rooftops like a lid. As they hurried along they heard noises from dark nooks and alleyways: sudden shuffling and skittering, like small animals bolting for cover, that made Shade growl and lunge at the shadows, and sometimes low muttering and other eerier, unidentifiable sounds. Freya’s light, however, never picked anything out of the darkness.

  The young woman’s route through the city seldom went in a straight line for long, and Will guessed that Freya was avoiding the worst-affected areas. Eventually she led them across a half collapsed bridge over a dried-up canal, and on the far side the companions had their first close sight of the werefire.

  On their left was a terrace of houses, the nearest one clearly no longer inhabited. Part of its wall had caved inward and the gaps showed only blackness inside.

  A heap of various objects lay on the street just outside the door, as if they had been carried there and suddenly abandoned by people fleeing the building. Tongues of pale green fire flickered here and there amid the heap: on the leg of a chair, along the rim of an overturned cauldron, across the page of a splayed-open book. The flames darted and danced strangely, in slow, flowing movements and sudden wild spasms, unlike any fire Will had seen before. At times a spear of flame would turn pale and transparent, and then flare into brilliance again. And strangest of all, Will could see shapes forming in the fire. Shapes that seemed to be about to become something he could recognize, a sword, a horse’s galloping hooves, a face turning towards him, before dissolving again.

  To his surprise Will discovered he was unwilling to look away from the werefire. The relentless dance of almost-shapes held his gaze. He expected Freya to hurry them past, but she slowed and went towards the fire.

  A shape rose from behind the heap, with a clink of glass.

  “Get away. I found it. It’s mine,” rasped a quavering voice.

  “You should be at home, Master Fenric, with your family,” Freya said.

  The figure moved warily into the light. It was a small, haggard-looking man, with long matted hair and smoky spectacles that hid his eyes. He held two large glass bottles in his gloved hands. Other smaller bottles and vials hung from his belt.

  “Ah, the blacksmith’s daughter,” the man said, with a grimace that might have been an attempt at a smile. “Ragnar has always been a friend. A good friend. He wouldn’t drive me off like the others. They’re jealous of me. Always have been.”

  “My father would tell you the same thing,” Freya said warningly.

  “Ragnar would agree with me,” the man babbled on. “He understands. He knows the sacrifices one must make. He sends his own child out into the streets at night. I applaud that. Tell him I’m close to success. So close. Found a new batch of the stuff, just erupted tonight. Tell him. I’m on the verge of getting it, you see, getting it bottled safely, so it doesn’t eat through the vessel. And when I’ve done that … when I’ve done—”

  He broke off, seized by a cough that doubled him over.

  “It can’t be kept safely, Master Fenric,” Freya said. “It will only destroy you. The nightcrawlers will be here soon, anyway. You’re in danger.”

  Fenric’s eyes darted wildly around.

  “You … you and your friends can hold them off,” he rasped. “While I finish. It requires delicate, painstaking work, you see, to induce the base of the flame to move in the direction you wish it to… And the eyes get tired, they start to sting and burn. Difficult to work with these spectacles and gloves on but there’s no other way. I need time. Time. No distractions. Someone watching my back. Yes. Yes. Do this for me and … and I’ll share the profits with you and your father. Tell Ragnar that. Yes. The profits will be substantial. Beyond any expectation. You’ll see. Imagine it. Stories, stories, so many stories to lose oneself in. They’ll come flocking from miles around for my bottled werefire.”

  “We will not help you go down this road,” Pendrake said firmly. “Freya says you have a family. They need you to protect them. Go home to them now, before it’s too late.”

  The hands holding the bottle shook violently. Fenric’s eyes opened wider as he stared at the toymaker. His cracked lips trembled. For an instant it seemed he might give in and heed Pendrake’s advice. Then he shook his head violently and turned away.

  “May the shadows take you,” he snarled, staggering back to the burning heap, where he crouched, his glassware clinking.

  Shade suddenly gave a start and, to Will’s surprise, Freya raised her hammer and hurled it in the direction of the crouching man. It flew over his head and smashed into the shadows beyond. Something gave a piercing shriek, then they could hear whimpers and scuffling noises that quickly faded away. Shade bounded in their direction a short distance, then returned.

  Fenric whirled with a choked gasp, then turned and gaped at Freya, his face white.

  “Go home,” she said.

  With trembling hands Fenric gathered his loose bottles. Then he fled down the street, with many backward glances, before vanishing round a corner.

  “He was a healer once, a good man,” Freya said sadly. “We’ve seen many decent folk seduced by the fire. It gives them visions of greatness, even as it drains their strength and weakens their minds. I’m afraid he’ll be back here, as soon as we leave.”

  “Let’s keep going,” Rowen said, and
everyone turned to her. She was gazing into the fire with wide eyes. Pendrake gently touched her shoulder.

  “Rowen?”

  She stirred and turned to him with a blank look.

  “You’re going back to the smithy,” the toymaker said firmly. “Freya, please take her.”

  “No, Grandfather,” Rowen said, and she drew away from him. “I need to do this. Like you did, when you were young. I need to know who I really am.”

  Freya retrieved her hammer and they went on. As they walked through the silent streets, Will had the eerie feeling that the city had been deserted, and that only he and his friends remained. Then came a sound that stopped everyone in their tracks. A long, chilling scream of rage and agony, that rose as if out of the last shadows of night and trailed away. The echo seemed to come from every direction at once. Will and his companions stared at one another with grim faces, then kept on, but more slowly.

  After threading their way through the narrow, rising streets, they came out at last into a large, deserted square. Before them lay a wide moat or canal that was almost empty of water, so that the ancient stonework at the bottom was laid bare, except where it was covered by a few stagnant, murky pools.

  “Most of the filth hide in the sewers during the day,” Freya said. “We’ve gone down there a few times to rout them out, but the sewers are a maze, and these nightcrawlers are good at hiding.”

  Rowen leant forward to look down and pulled back suddenly as Will grabbed her cloak.

  “Isn’t there a bridge?” she asked.

  “The mages used a ferry, but there is another way now.”

  Freya led them to a short flight of stone steps that descended from the street to the floor of the moat. The companions followed her carefully down the steps, which were crumbling and slick with slime, until they reached the bottom.

  “Everyone stay together,” Freya said, when they were ready to go on, “and watch where you tread.”

  They set out across the floor of the moat, which was made of huge uneven slabs of stone that sloped down from the walls towards the centre. The stench of rot and stagnant water was so strong that Will gagged and had to keep the collar of his cloak over his nose. When they reached the lowest part of the moat, they were forced to walk round a long, narrow pool of still, greenish-brown water.

  Shade sniffed the air and made a disgusted face.

  “Keep close to me, Will Lightfoot,” he said. “There are foul things in this place.”

  On the far side of the pool, the moat floor, now rising towards the far wall, was heaved and cracked into a jagged ridge, leaving only a slim gap through which they would have to climb in single file.

  As Freya reached the top of the ridge, one of the broken slabs of rock beside her moved. To Will’s surprise, it shivered like a live thing and began to flow, as if it had suddenly begun melting. Freya gave a shout and stumbled backwards. With a grating sound the rock, or whatever it was, slithered out of sight into a crack in the moat floor.

  “Slimestone,” Freya said, picking herself up from the ground. “Pretty harmless, compared to most of what we might run into down here.”

  As they approached the wall, a bright gleam caught at the edge of Will’s sight. Turning to find the source he saw something red and shiny near a small grating over a drain. He bent forward and squinted for a better look. The grating was hoary with encrusted filth, but wedged between two of its bars was an apple.

  A big, red, shiny, juicy-looking apple.

  After days and days of bannog and thin broth, an apple would be… Will moved away from his companions and crouched down. The apple looked perfectly good, despite being utterly out of place down here in the muck and slime. Someone must have dropped it on the way home from the market, and then it rolled down here. No need for it to go to waste.

  His fingers were just touching the cold skin of the apple when he heard Freya shout, “No, Will!”

  In the next instant the grating dropped away and a thick pale arm, like a slab of bloodless meat, shot up and clutched the hem of his cloak. Before he could even cry out he was pulled down into darkness.

  Knucklebone, toothbone

  Bloody bag of meat

  Nibbling on your fingertips

  Gnawing at your feet.

  — Troll’s song, from an old Skald bedtime story

  WILL THRASHED AND FOUGHT, but rough, powerful hands quickly stuffed him into what seemed to be a large canvas sack. He tumbled and kicked in the sudden dark.

  “Let me out!” he screamed.

  The only result was a blow to his side from an unseen fist that made him gasp with pain.

  “Shut your hole or there’s more of that,” a deep voice growled.

  In the next moment he felt himself picked up and hefted, he thought, over someone or something’s shoulder. Then his captor set off at a run that bounced and banged him around like a rag doll.

  He was caught. Because of his own carelessness. And now he was being taken away further from his friends with each step. Panic threatened to take hold of him and he tried to calm himself, tried to concentrate and pay attention to what was happening, which wasn’t easy while being bounced around. He became aware of a rank, sickening stench, and realized that they must be in the sewers beneath the city. Where Freya had said the nightcrawlers hid.

  Shade will find me, Will thought with a sudden hope, and then remembered the narrowness of the grate he had been pulled through. Would the wolf even be able to fit through it? And what if his captors had sealed the grate behind them? If his friends couldn’t follow him through the drain, they would have to find another way down. If there was another way.

  Thoughts like these went round and round in his head until he was brought back by the sound of a harsh, grating voice, then another.

  “Anyone following?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  There must be two captors. Will remembered his knife, and although the sack hampered his movements, he was able to reach the hilt. He was about to slide the blade from its sheath, and then he hesitated. Sooner or later, he assumed, they would open the sack to haul him out. Should he come at them then with the knife? Or should he try to cut his way out of the sack while they were still carrying him? If they caught him doing this, he would be almost helpless against them.

  Before he could make up his mind which was the better plan, the running stopped. Will curled up just in time and hit the ground painfully on his side.

  “I do believe it is your turn to carry this,” said the first voice.

  “Done in already, are you?” said the second voice, which was softer and yet more menacing than the first.

  “Not at all, it’s just that I carried the last two, if you remember.”

  “Very well,” the second voice said after a pause, “but let’s find out what we’ve bagged first. See if it’s worth the effort.”

  “Splendid idea,” said the first voice, and then hands began to work at the neck of the sack. As it was opened Will tried to shrink down into a ball, but it was no use. A huge hand groped in the sack and then seized his collar in an iron grip. He was hauled up and out like a kitten and tossed onto a cold stone floor.

  Will looked up and had to suppress a cry of horror at the two faces staring back at him – they were hideous with tiny close-set eyes and turned-up snouts glistening with slime. They belonged to large, fleshy, man-like creatures that looked almost exactly alike, right down to the clothes they were wearing: patched rags that had apparently once been fine suits of dark maroon velvet. There was even some dirty lace still poking out of the cuffs of their sleeves, and tattered white wigs were perched on their massive heads. The only difference Will could see between his captors was that one was slightly less fat than the other and had a long, ugly scar running from his forehead to the corner of his mouth. This one lunged forward and prodded Will in the chest with a dirty finger. His breath reeked like rotting meat. Will’s stomach churned.

  “Well look at this, Hodge,” the creature sai
d, and the voice was the softer, more menacing one Will had heard from inside the sack. “This is…”

  “A most pleasant surprise,” the fatter creature interrupted, then licked its lips. “You just don’t see many of their young any more. That stupid slimestone had its eyes open for once.”

  Will sat up slowly and darted quick looks at the place his captors had brought him. It was a wide, pillared hall with a vaulted ceiling. What little light there was came from a tiny grating far above, like the one that he had been pulled through. Behind him was some sort of underground canal, filled with water which gave off plumes of foul-smelling steam. He was on a wedge-shaped pier that jutted out into the canal, so that he was surrounded on three sides by water, with his captors in front of him. They had trapped him here while they inspected him.

  “You’d think they’d have learned to watch their whelps more closely,” the fatter of the two said, and Will turned his attention back to his captors.

  “All the better for us that they haven’t,” the scarred one said with a wicked grin. He brought his glistening snout close and took an exploratory sniff. As Will recoiled he remembered something Rowen had said. In her list of the different kinds of Nightbane she had mentioned a kind of troll called hogmen. There was no doubt that these two fitted that title perfectly. But what had Rowen told him? They were not very clever, and … they ate people.

  “A trifle on the lean side,” the scarred troll said with a frown. “You have to wonder what they’re being fed up there.”

  “I concur, brother,” said the one called Hodge. “Shocking neglect. Those abovegrounders have no consideration for us. How are we to get by if they don’t fatten up their young? Times are hard, brother. Times are hard.”

  “Well, never mind,” said the other hogman, with a nasty chuckle. “We’ll just have to watch out for all the little bones.”

  Will shuddered: it was now absolutely clear what the intentions of these two were. He searched the tunnel for some way of escape, but saw nothing. The vaulted hall stretched off in all directions into darkness, without a door or staircase in sight.