The Shadow of Malabron

by Thomas Wharton

  As Will reached for the door handle, he felt a tap on his shoulder, and turned. There stood Rowen, frowning at him.

  “Idiot,” she muttered.

  “What?”

  “Numbskull. Blubberbrain. Dolt.”

  She gave him a shove, and he staggered back, startled. He’d felt that. The pikes and maces of his enemies had been like caresses in comparison.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Will shouted. “I have to find Jess. She’s here somewhere.”

  “Look behind you, stupid,” Rowen said. “Behind you.”

  Will turned his head. He was crouched once again in the drainpipe, still within the ring of werefire.

  Behind him came Flitch’s voice, ragged with rage.

  “You can’t go that way, idiot. Didn’t you hear me? Halfwit. We’re not going to lay a finger on you, we swear…”

  The hogman had squeezed himself further into the hole. His fat, grasping hand was only inches from Will’s foot.

  “We promise,” Hodge shouted from behind him. “Please come back, Sir William. It’s not safe in there.”

  Will scuttled quickly to the other side of the werefire.

  “We’ll find you, you little vermin,” Flitch shrieked, all pretence of friendliness abandoned at last. “We know these sewers inside and out. Every nook and cranny. We can smell your blood like warm broth. We’ll find you, and when we do we’ll boil you in a pot and make a stew out of you…”

  “Oh, it will be a lovely stew, Sir William,” Hodge called. “You’ll be amazed what a fine chef my brother is…”

  Will crawled away, dazed. Now he understood the true danger of the fire. If Rowen had not appeared, he might have stayed in that story, believing himself a hero, until the hogmen had him back in their clutches.

  The drain sloped up round a curve and the hogmen’s shouts quickly faded. Soon Will noticed that the tunnel was widening, and he was able to rise to a stoop instead of crawling on his hands and knees. He went on like this for what seemed a very long time, his way lit by more outbreaks of the werefire, which he passed by quickly without daring even a glance.

  Finally he rounded another curve and came to a space where the drain he was in joined two other, larger tunnels. Where they met there was another shaft running upwards at a steep slant into deep shadow. Ragged pennants of werefire fluttered along the walls of the shaft, but Will breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of a row of iron rungs like a ladder. Surely this would take him up into the keep.

  He jumped, caught the lowest rung, hauled himself up and began to climb.

  The rungs were further apart than they had appeared from below, and the going was harder than Will had expected. After climbing for a long time he stopped to catch his breath, where a smaller drainpipe opened into the shaft. As he clung there, panting, he saw a pair of slitted red eyes watching him from the opening of the drain.

  “Get lost!” he roared. Something he could not see hissed and skittered away.

  He pressed on, and now when he looked up he could see a faint green glow above, seeping through the seams of what looked like some sort of circular trapdoor. Will climbed on, and soon he reached the trapdoor, breathing hard. Planting himself as firmly as he could against the sides of the shaft, he reached up and pushed against the door with all of his remaining strength. After a terrible moment in which it seemed the door would not budge, it suddenly came unstuck and lifted with a rusty creak.

  Grunting with the effort, Will shoved the door out of his way and hauled himself up out of the shaft. Once he was out he heaved the trapdoor shut and lay panting, too exhausted to do anything more than look around.

  He was in a large, windowless room with damp stone walls and a high ceiling crossed by thick wooden beams. From them, suspended by chains, hung several empty cages whose doors appeared to have been wrenched open. On the opposite wall a flight of steps climbed steeply to a small door made of iron. All around him the floor was strewn with shards of glass and the splintered remains of shelves, tables and chairs. A few shelves still stood against the walls, and upon them sat glass bottles and flasks filled with various sorts of liquids, powders, and in some cases, what appeared to be small creatures suspended in thick, murky fluid. Hanging from a hook in one corner was a skeleton that was human-shaped but had curling horns and a long tailbone.

  The light in the room came from many small eruptions of werefire, silently burning in corners, along the walls and on the stairs. There were even flames clinging to the beams and burning down into the room, like ghostly bats stirring in their sleep. The largest and brightest of the fires filled one of the open cages hanging from the beams and seemed to crouch there within the bars like an animal waiting to spring.

  It was as if he had found the very source of the fire.

  As Will lay there he heard a faint fluttering, like the wings of countless moths, and sensed the dizzy swarming of a thousand stories trembling to take shape.

  He rose unsteadily and made for the stairs. He hoped that he was in a lower room or dungeon of the keep, and that beyond that small iron door he might find a way out. In any event, he had to get out of this room.

  As Will set foot on the bottom step he felt the air in the room grow colder. The hair rose on the back of his neck and he turned slowly. To his horror he saw that the werefire in the cage was moving, flowing out and dripping like melting wax onto the floor, where it grew stronger and brighter and began to take shape. Before his eyes the fire grew into a human-like figure, with arms and legs and a head crowned with flames.

  The head turned towards him, and in the depths of the flames a face began to form. Its mouth opened wide and it howled, with the sound of a hundred voices.

  Will dashed up the steps to the iron door, grabbed the latch and pulled. The door did not budge. He tugged again and again. The door was stuck fast.

  He was trapped.

  To serve and stand guard,

  To illuminate and preserve.

  To bring light to the shadows

  And hope to those who fear.

  — from the Charter of the League of Four

  FINN AND FREYA CAME TO A PLACE where the tunnel they had been searching branched into three. Three tunnels that were alike in every way: dark, cold, and foul-smelling. They had split up from Pendrake, Rowen and Shade in order to search more of the sewers in a shorter time.

  “We could use Shade’s nose at the moment,” Finn said, peering into the gloom ahead. “Do these tunnels go on for ever?”

  “We have lived in Skald for a very long time,” Freya said. “Our people built deep into the rock. It’s where the very young and the old take refuge when invaders come. And they’ve come many times. This time, they’re already inside.”

  “If the Errantry had known about this, we would have helped.”

  “A band of knights-errant did come to Skald once, not long after the League took power. They came as friends, but the mages told us that you Wayfarers were like everyone else. You really wanted the city for yourselves. And many people believed them.”

  “Did you?”

  “I’d met Father Nicholas. I knew what a friend was.”

  “I’ve heard your people built Skald after your homeland in the north was lost to the Night King. I don’t know the whole story.”

  Freya smiled bitterly.

  “The story is no longer whole. We are all that’s left. And that is why we find it hard to trust strangers. And also maybe why we were so easily fooled by those who promised to make us strong. But I’d rather not speak of these things, not in this place. Once we’ve found your friend, there will be time for tales.”

  Finn nodded. He was about to suggest they take the middle tunnel and hope for the best, when they heard voices. Someone was coming up the tunnel behind them. Finn and Freya quickly moved into the shadow of a recess in the wall beside them and waited. The voices grew louder.

  “I really think we should go back and get that apple,” one was whining. “It was so juicy-looking.”
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  “I’ll shove that apple in your gob and roast you on a spit if you don’t keep quiet,” hissed another, nastier voice. “The slimestone said there were others with the boy. Do you want them to find us?”

  Finn and Freya exchanged a quick, decisive look. They stepped out of the shadows and into the path of the two hogmen, who stumbled to a halt and stared at them with fearful, blinking eyes.

  “Too late,” Finn said, drawing his sword.

  “Where is the boy?” Freya said, brandishing her hammer.

  Hodge’s lip began to twitch. Flitch stepped back slowly, his eyes narrow and hard.

  “What boy?” he said. “We know nothing about any boy. We’re just passing through this city on our way to—”

  “Where is he?” Finn shouted, as Freya slipped behind the hogmen to cut off their escape.

  “We didn’t hurt Sir William, honestly,” Hodge blubbered. “We took him, yes we did, we won’t deny it, but it was because we knew he was a great champion looking to challenge us, you see, and we … we … we thought we’d make it interesting for him, sort of surprise him, don’t you see. He said I was the one to beat. He really did. Are you the Seven Mighty Companions? I mean, two of them?”

  “What in the Thunderer’s name is he blathering about?” Freya growled.

  Finn grinned. “I think Will has learned a few tricks from Master Pendrake.”

  He thrust the tip of his sword under Hodge’s glistening snout.

  “Where is he?”

  “He went up one of the drains,” Flitch snarled, casting a murderous look at his brother. “One that leads to the keep. That’s probably where he is. We haven’t seen him since. Try the keep, if you have the courage.”

  “How do we get there from here?”

  “There’s a staircase down one of those tunnels,” Flitch said, pointing.

  “Show us.”

  “Oh, please, mighty friends of Sir William,” Hodge whimpered. “We hogmen don’t do well at all in places like that. Show a little pity, for pity’s sake. We’re just two starving homeless harmless fellows. We don’t want any trouble.”

  “Will’s not the first person to go missing in these tunnels,” Freya said. “There are plenty of folk up above who would like to ask you about that. If you’d rather we took you to see them…”

  “We’ll show you how to get to the keep,” Flitch muttered.

  The creature of fire was climbing the steps now. Will threw himself against the door and hammered on it. There was nowhere else to go.

  At the top of the stairs the creature of fire halted. Its face dissolved and became another, an entirely different face, and then another, as if a multitude of beings were struggling to take form, to persist against the ever-changing ripple and weave of the flames. Finally one face appeared and did not melt away, that of a gaunt, bearded man. There was a look of pain or struggle in his eyes, as though he was fighting to keep himself from vanishing into the fire like all the other faces. He gazed at Will with a beseeching expression. His mouth opened soundlessly.

  “What is it?” Will whispered. “Who are you?”

  The creature of fire moved closer, and held out its arms towards Will.

  “From the Untold…” it gasped in a voice like dry twigs catching flame. “The emissary seeks you…”

  Just then there was a clang of metal, and with a shriek of rusty hinges the door crashed open. Freya rushed in, wielding her hammer, with Finn close behind, his sword drawn.

  “Look out!” Will shouted. Before they could react, the creature of fire collapsed in on itself like a burning cloak that had been dropped, then flowed swiftly over and down the sheer side of the stairs. Once it touched the floor it split once again into many separate flames which slithered into the furthest corners of the room.

  “What is that thing?” Freya whispered.

  Before Will could answer, there was a shout from below. They looked down to see Shade climbing out of the shaft, with Rowen and her grandfather close behind him. The wolf bounded up the stairs and Will threw his arms round him.

  “Are you hurt, Will Lightfoot?” Shade asked.

  “No,” Will said shakily. “I don’t think so. Thank you for finding me. I thought I was finished.”

  They quickly descended the steps to where Pendrake and Rowen stood. Will saw with alarm that Rowen’s face was paler than he had ever seen it. She was leaning on her grandfather’s arm. When she saw Will looking at her she gave him a brave smile.

  “The creature is still in the room, I think,” Finn said. “Is it the dweller in the keep?”

  “Perhaps,” Pendrake said. “I think we can find out for certain. Everyone stand back.”

  Freya gently guided Rowen away from the toymaker. He stepped forward and in a loud, commanding voice spoke a few words that Will did not understand. After a few moments rivulets of werefire flowed together from several corners of the room, brightening as they merged. The fiery figure rose again, this time larger and roaring even louder than it had before. From its outstretched hands dripped gouts of green flame. Will and the others drew back, but the toymaker did not move as the fire blazed around him.

  In the next instant the werefire creature had diminished again to its former size and made a dash for the trapdoor.

  Pendrake spoke again and the creature stopped dead and began to tremble and seethe like a flame caught in a gust of wind. The toymaker took a step closer to it and held out his hand. At the same time he struck the floor with his staff. There was a thunderous crack and the room shook under Will’s feet. The werefire whirled up into the air in a frenzied spiral, leaving behind a dark figure that sank down, reaching out to the loremaster a trembling hand. Pendrake took it and eased the dark figure to the floor. At the same time a seething, crackling wreath of flames rose to the roof beams. The other, smaller fires raced and leapt from every corner of the room to join it.

  Pendrake straightened and held out his staff. Like a bolt of lightning the werefire stabbed towards it. For an instant the room blazed with light as a roaring emerald column plunged through the staff and vanished into the floor.

  Silence descended. The fire was gone and the room was dark, save for a dim ghostly afterglow that seemed to come from the places where the flames had been. Pendrake leant wearily on his staff, passed a hand over his brow, then gazed with the others at what lay huddled on the floor before them.

  It was a man with a grizzled beard and long, unkempt hair, shivering in the torn and filthy remains of a belted robe. He was pale and gaunt, little more than skin and bone. His eyes stared vacantly past Will and his friends, as if he could not see them.

  “Who is he, Grandfather?” Rowen asked. She was still very pale, but some of her old energy had returned to her voice.

  “I have no idea.”

  “I do,” Freya said, her face clouding with anger. “This is the mage Strigon, of the League of Four. Has he been hiding here all this time?”

  “He was your dweller in the keep,” Pendrake said. “And the source of the werefire.”

  “How can that be?” Freya said. “It should have destroyed him.”

  “The fathomless fire does not kill. Its source is a power that sustains life. It was keeping Strigon alive, even as it was surely driving him into madness.”

  Pendrake crouched before the mage and gently put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Can you hear me?” he asked. “Do you know where you are?” After a long moment the mage stirred, looked up at Pendrake and nodded slowly. He opened his mouth and seemed to be struggling to speak.

  “We…” he said at last, in a voice that was little more than a breathless gasp. “We … have done a terrible thing.”

  “What have you done?”

  “We were searching for one of the lost farholds. The wishing portals. It was not there, and then it was there… A gateless gate. It began to close. We summoned the werefire to keep it open, but we could not control it. The fire leapt out like a wild beast. It came for me… It…”

>   The mage’s eyes widened and he raised his hand as if to ward off something only he could see.

  “Where is this gate?” Pendrake asked.

  Strigon shook his head.

  “I won’t go back there,” he whispered feverishly. “Not even if the emissary commands it … I won’t.”

  “Who was this emissary?”

  “He did not say, but we knew… We knew who sent him but we met him anyway… He wanted us to search for … a new thread in the Kantar. A disturbance. Something his master was seeking. He said the city would be spared if we aided him, and we would be given much power…” The mage began to tremble violently again, and his head sank. “Now all is lost…”

  “Listen to me, Master Strigon,” Pendrake said. “It is not too late to undo some of what you have done. This city can still be saved, and many others besides, if we do not give in to despair. Tell me, where did you find the wishing portal?”

  The mage shuddered and clutched Pendrake’s arm like a drowning swimmer.

  “High in the mountains… The Needle’s Eye … we found a secret path leading up … to a hidden vale… When the fire took me the others fled back to the city… I followed, but they did not know me. I could not speak, could not tell them… They drove me into the dungeons. They left me to burn.”

  The mage looked away from Pendrake and for the first time he seemed to be aware of the others gathered round him. His gaze darted wildly from face to face and then settled on Will. His eyes stared in fear and he tried to rise but Pendrake held him back.

  “You are from the Untold,” he rasped at Will. “It must be you. He will be coming for you…”

  His eyes rolled up in his head and he fell forward into Pendrake’s arms.

  “Is he dead?” Freya asked.