“It’s like someone … tore the world. Tore the fabric of things.”
“The mages cut into the Weaving with spells like swords,” Pendrake said gravely. He looked at Will, who read his thought with dismay. If part of the vale now lay at the bottom of the Great Rampart, the wishing portal might be there with it, buried under tons of broken stone.
There was only one way to find out. The companions backtracked along the rim of the gorge until they came to a rough path that appeared to lead, in a series of sharp zigzags, to the floor of the vale. The path was narrow, and Will shuffled along it cautiously with his back pressed against the cliff face. Halfway down, they came to a flat, wide ledge that had been carved directly out of the cliff. They hurried along this wider, more level walkway, passing several narrow openings in the rock that led off into darkness. Will peered into them as he went past, wondering where they led.
As the companions descended, the sky began to darken as swift clouds moved in from the east. A chill wind swept into the gorge from above, bringing with it the scent of snow.
At last the walkway ended in a long steeply sloping ramp that took them swiftly to the bottom of the gorge. There the companions crossed the encircling moat by way of several large stones that jutted from the water and appeared to have once been part of a collapsed bridge. Once across, they debated what to do.
“The vale will take some time to explore,” said Pendrake. “But I don’t think we should risk splitting up.”
“It happened there,” Rowen said, pointing to the far end of the vale. “That’s where the mages let out the werefire. That’s where we should look.”
There was no doubt in her voice, and Will looked at her wonderingly. Pendrake studied her briefly, as well, then took up his staff.
“Very well,” he said.
They started off and soon passed between two arms of the ancient ring walls. These were sunk so low in the grass that Will could have easily scrambled over them. By this time the hint that the wind had given proved true: a few scattered flakes of snow began to fall, like white petals that melted as soon as they touched the earth.
“In the dream you told us about, didn’t you see snow?” Rowen asked. Will turned in surprise. She was watching him. She had seen the troubled look on his face and must have guessed what he was thinking.
Will nodded.
“The Angel was there, too,” he said uneasily. A feeling of dread churned in him like nausea. Reluctantly he hurried beside Shade, and soon they reached the centre of the vale, a circular area of stonework ringed by the concentric walls. Here the ground descended slightly in a series of terraces to a great moss-covered stone, which stood at the centre of the ring like the pointer of a giant sundial. A few yards beyond the stone lay the edge of the jagged gap they had seen from the rim of the gorge. The snow was quickly growing thicker, so that the enclosing walls of the gorge had already begun to vanish behind billowing white curtains.
A few thin tongues of werefire flickered here and there in the grass.
The companions descended to the base of the stone and gazed up at it. Finn bounded up the least steep side. He looked in all directions, blinking through the flurrying snow, then gave a shout and pointed to the gap.
“There’s more werefire that way,” he shouted.
The others followed his direction and walked cautiously to the edge of the gap. Their view was obscured at first by the swirling snow, but for a moment the wind swept it away and they had a clear view of what lay below them. The vale did not end in a sheer wall plummeting to the valley floor but tumbled steeply for several hundred yards, narrowing at last to a slender outcrop of rock that jutted out like the prow of a ship. The uttermost pinnacle of the rock was lit by a halo of werefire.
In the next instant the snow had closed in again and the vision was gone.
“I can’t see any kind of gateway,” Will shouted.
“We’re looking for a gateless gate,” said Pendrake, “whatever that may be. But down there is where the werefire is strongest.”
“With this wet snow the climb down will be treacherous,” Freya said.
“I will go first,” Shade said. “I can find the safest way down and then Will can follow.”
Before anyone could move, Rowen cried out, “Someone’s coming!”
Between one realm and another there is but a breath.
— The Kantar
WILL WHIRLED ROUND, but saw nothing. He peered through the pelting snow and then glimpsed what Rowen had seen: tall, dim figures advancing slowly from all directions, descending the tiers towards the stone. A score of them, or more, Will thought. Through the snow all that he could see for certain was that they wore dull, battered armour and carried pikes and swords.
“They must’ve been the ones following us in the caves,” Finn said as the companions banded together at the edge of the gap.
“What are they?” cried Freya, gripping her hammer tightly.
“We’ve seen them before,” Pendrake said in a voice shaken with weariness and defeat.
The leader was a man with long dark hair, carrying a broken blade. His face was expressionless, his eyes as blank and lifeless as the snow that fell all around him. Will remembered the Shee in the ice tombs and a shudder ran through him.
“They are Tain Shee,” said Finn, drawing his sword. “Or they were.”
“They are the dead, inhabited by fetches,” Pendrake said.
“Then Moth must be…” Rowen began.
She did not finish. Pendrake turned to Will, his face grim and pale.
“You can climb down to that outcrop, while we bar the way,” he said. “Shade, you go with Will. And Rowen, you too.”
Rowen gave the loremaster a stricken look.
“Grandfather, no—” she began.
“If Will finds a farhold, you will go through it with him, into the Untold.”
“I won’t. I won’t leave you here.”
“Obey me, child. Your father came from that world. It is yours too. You will be safe there, with Will.”
Rowen’s gaze travelled from Finn, to Freya, and back to her grandfather. She shook her head. Will stood beside her, struggling with his own tears.
“What about you?” he said to them.
“We can fight better with the two of you out of the way,” Finn said. “If there is a wishing portal down there, you have a chance to keep Rowen out of danger.”
Will nodded and gripped Shade’s ruff.
“All right,” he said, swallowing hard.
“Go with Will, Rowen,” Freya said. “We will not let your grandfather fall.”
Tears filled Rowen’s eyes. Pendrake took her by the shoulders.
“I will find a way to bring you back after this is finished,” he said to her, “I promise. Go now, before it’s too late.”
He raised his staff and stood beside Finn and Freya.
Shade moved first. He turned and started down the slope, and Will and Rowen reluctantly followed. Moments later they were already out of sight of their friends, and soon after they heard shouts and the clash of metal. Rowen halted and looked back. Shade urged her on with a nudge and after a long moment during which Will wasn’t sure what she would do, she turned and kept on.
The flying snow meant they could see only a few feet in front of them, which made each step a frightening tread into the unknown. Both Will and Rowen slipped on the wet, stony turf and had to clutch Shade to keep from sliding helplessly down the slope. And here on the Rampart’s face, where there was little shelter from the elements, the wind was free and howled in their ears like a wild thing unleashed. The ground beneath them shuddered and stony chunks of earth thudded and clattered past, some of them trailing green flames. It was clear that the werefire was still at work here.
At last they reached the outcrop and began to step out warily onto its narrow surface, Shade taking the lead. Once more Rowen paused and looked back. So did Will, but the top of the slope was already hidden from view, and the shriek
of the wind was so loud there was no way to know what was happening to their companions up above.
Will and Rowen looked at one another. What he saw in her eyes filled him with a fierce protectiveness and resolve: for the first time, it was she who was looking to him for courage, for a reason to keep going. At that moment he knew he would do anything for her.
“Come on,” he said, as he took her hand in his. She gripped his hand tightly in response and they went on.
The outcrop was slippery with wet snow, and Will kept his eyes on the rock until Shade suddenly grunted and he looked up. They were nearing the pinnacle, silhouetted with flickering werefire, and now Will noticed that the wind had fallen to a low keening. The snow, still thick and obscuring, fluttered straight down, lit eerily by the glow of the werefire.
If Will took another few steps, he would come to the very edge of the precipice. The only journey he would make from there was a plummet to the bottom of the Great Rampart. Rowen turned in a circle, anguish in her eyes.
“There’s nothing here, Will,” she shouted. “If there was a farhold it must have collapsed. We should go back.”
Will knew she was right, but he could not bring himself to leave. His friends had risked their lives for him, and to come this far only to fail meant it was all in vain. He struggled to remember what the mage Strigon had said. It was not there, and then it was there… A gateless gate. In desperation he bowed his head and tried to clear his thoughts, in the way that had guided him to Shade, to the knot-path, to the keep in Skald. Instead, he saw only the lifeless face of the dead Shee warrior in the ice tomb, and his thoughts went out to the toymaker, Finn, and Freya. At this very moment they could be hurt. Dying. Their stories did not deserve an ending like this.
He heard a sharp intake of breath from Rowen and opened his eyes.
Everywhere, as before, the falling snow had turned the world to a wilderness of flurrying gloom, except at the summit of the outcrop. There the halo of werefire had intensified, almost solidified, into an arch that seemed to be holding back the snow, leaving a brighter space of light within, as if invisible hands had drawn aside a curtain.
“A gateless gate,” Rowen whispered.
“Did you do that, Will Lightfoot?” Shade asked.
“No, I couldn’t have.”
“I did it,” Rowen said, and there was disbelief and fear in her voice. “The portal was still there. I just didn’t see it at first. It’s almost not there. I don’t know what I did, but it’s open. For now.”
Will took a step closer. Within the open space a warm light, like sunset through a fine mist, had begun to grow. He caught the scent of flowers, heard the whisper of wind among green leaves.
“Hurry, Will,” Rowen urged him. “It won’t stay open much longer. I can feel it closing. Go.”
Will turned to her.
“You’re not coming with me,” he said, already knowing what she had decided.
“I have to go back,” Rowen said, her face pale but determined. “I can’t leave my grandfather.”
“Rowen, no…”
“I’m going, Will. I’m sorry.”
“Shade goes with you, then,” Will said.
“Only once you’re home, Will Lightfoot,” the wolf said. “That was my promise.”
“Then I discharge you from your promise,” Will said, his voice shaking. “I don’t want you here. Go.”
Both Rowen and the wolf stared at him. Then Rowen threw her arms round Will. She stepped away, brushing tears from her eyes.
“Goodbye, Will,” she said in a trembling voice.
“I’ll come back,” Will said. “Somehow. I’ll find a way.”
“I know.”
“Farewell, Will Lightfoot,” Shade said.
“Goodbye, Shade,” Will said, choking back tears. “You’re free now.”
“I was always free,” the wolf said. “I am here because we are friends.”
Together Rowen and the wolf turned away and hurried back from the precipice. Will watched them until they had vanished into the snow. Then he turned and stepped up slowly to the farhold, half expecting the gate to waver and vanish before his eyes, like a mirage.
He took another step, and now he was directly before the farhold. He caught the damp cool scent of the woods where he had abandoned the motorcycle. He knew that all he had to do was pass through this gateway, holding the image of home in his thoughts, and he would be there. Away from this story he wasn’t supposed to be in. Back to his own life, to Dad, and Jess.
Just as he was about to step through, he thought he heard a faint cry. He halted and looked back, straining to hear. The cry did not come again, and he could see nothing but snow and rock. He wasn’t even sure he had heard anything other than the shriek of the wind.
He turned to the farhold, took another step, and then stopped.
“No,” he said under this breath. “This isn’t right. Not like this.”
He turned into the flying snow and ran back along from the pinnacle. He ran until the veil of snow thinned and there, at the base of the outcrop, stood Rowen, her knife held out before her. Shade lay beside her, struggling to rise.
Standing over both of them like a shape of rising fog was a tall figure robed and hooded in white.
Dread seized Will. He knew who it was. As he watched in horror, Rowen screamed, dropped her knife and staggered backwards. The figure stooped and with one hand lifted her by the collar of her cloak. Its other hand, wrapped in ribbons of white as if bandaged, reached towards her face, for some purpose Will could not guess.
“Get away from her!” he shouted, and without another thought he rushed forward. The figure straightened and looked towards him, its face still unseen within the shadows of the hood. Then its arm swept out like a whip and knocked Will aside. He struck the ground hard and rolled to the edge of the outcrop, just managing to clutch at the rock before he went over. As he crawled back onto the pinnacle, he felt an ice-cold shadow fall over him.
“Will Lightfoot,” an all-too familiar voice said, chilling him to the heart. “This is where the story ends.”
Armour of earth,
Cloak of air,
Shield of water,
Sword of fire.
— Ancient invocation against evil
WILL CHOKED BACK A CRY as Rowen began to vanish into the folds and shadows of the shrowde.
“What are you doing to her?” he shouted. “Leave her alone!”
The Angel turned to him, the face within the ragged hood still concealed, as if by shadows of its own weaving.
“You and your companions have surprised me, Will Lightfoot,” the Angel said. “Even dragons take your side. But in the end you played your role, as my master foresaw.”
He raised his hand and there was a loud crack like thunder. The rock beneath the farhold shuddered and then collapsed. The opening within the snow now hovered in space, out of Will’s reach. As he watched in despair, the snow began to obscure the gateway again. It was shrinking, narrowing like curtains slowly falling together.
“One more doorway sealed for ever,” the Angel intoned, as if he was presiding at some dark ceremony. “The memory of the Stewards fades. Their story becomes legend, rumour, lies, and finally, nothing at all. A meaningless word drifting on the wind.”
“Let Rowen go,” Will said desperately. “It was me you wanted.”
The hood turned again in his direction, and a chilling sound came from it, a sound like stone scraping over stone, that Will realized was laughter.
“I was looking for you, Will Lightfoot,” the Angel said, “but only because I knew that you could lead me to her. She is the new thread in the weave that my master seeks. You thought you were the hero of this tale. But you were only a means to an end. Your part is finished. That should please you.”
As he spoke Rowen vanished into the shrowde.
“You don’t have to do this,” Will shouted, and then a sudden understanding shot through him. “You want to be free from him, too.�
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As soon as he said it, he knew it was true. He had heard it in the Angel’s voice. For a long moment Lotan did not speak or move. The grey shadows within the hood of the shrowde seemed to churn like stormclouds.
“You do not yet understand,” Lotan finally said, and once more his voice was cold and lifeless. “Look upon me. I am the Angel of Despair. This is my part to play. It could not have been otherwise.”
With that the shrowde billowed into the air, and before Will could think or act, the Angel had soared over the edge of the outcrop and was gone.
Will scrambled to his feet. There was a stabbing pain in his chest where the shrowde had struck him.
Shade still lay unmoving near by. The farhold was a thin gap, swiftly closing. Will stood helplessly before it, and then, as in the forest when he found the knot-path, the feeling came over him that there was something only he could do. The story he had tried to deny had gathered itself round him in this moment and now everything depended upon what he chose. Rowen was the last hope of the Realm, Pendrake had said. This was her story. She had to survive.
There was no more time to think. He ran for the edge of the outcrop and jumped towards the farhold.
“Take me to Rowen,” he shouted.
The wind shrieked in his ears. He was falling, plummeting into a roaring, snowy abyss. He screamed and shut his eyes in terror. The next thing he knew there was a violent lurch, as though he had come to a sudden stop.
Will opened his eyes. He could see nothing but a swirling of whiteness and grey shadows. His body seemed to be floating in empty space. He struggled to gain some kind of hold or solid ground, then felt something constrict round him like the cold sliding grip of a python.
He was inside the shrowde. But it was more than a cloak for the Angel, he realized. The thing was somehow larger or deeper than it seemed from the outside. Something with a mind and will. He felt that if it wished, it could pull him down into a bottomless white nothingness from which he would never return. Rowen must be in here somewhere, too, he thought with a surge of fear. And the Angel, but Will could not see or feel him, and for that small mercy he was grateful.
The Shadow of Malabron Page 31
