The Tree of Story

by Thomas Wharton

  “The Angel cannot be ended, Dirge. You know that. Even to have such a thought is blasphemy.”

  “Oh, Great Prince,” Dirge replied, cowering even lower. “Mighty One, we did not truly believe those wicked rumours. It is just that we … no, it was Gibbet who feared … if anything happened to you, not that it could, but—”

  “Return to your work, harrowers. I have captives to be brought before the One.”

  Dirge bowed her head again, so low this time that her lank hair trailed in the pool.

  “Pardon our babbling, Prince of Hunger,” she said. “We did not know that these morsels were for the One. In our joy at seeing you again, we allowed ourselves the hope that you had brought these dainties for us, a gift for your most loyal friends. Just as we captured the shrowde and brought it to you, so long ago, as a gift.”

  “We have never been friends, Dirge,” Morrigan said, and the shrowde cloak billowed like a storm cloud. “It was no more than your duty to bring me the shrowde.”

  Dirge ducked her head, but her eyes remained fixed on Rowen and Will. She inched closer, and Rowen could not stop from taking a step backward. It was clear the harrower could not stop herself, either, even with the threat of the Angel hanging over her.

  “Just look at them, so rich with fear,” Dirge moaned. “We can smell the swift, sweet blood running in them. Fresh little mice. They must be strong to be so lively yet.”

  Dirge reached a claw toward Rowen, but in the next instant a tendril of the shrowde cloak shot out and curled itself around her wrist. The harrower shrieked and tugged to get free, but the shrowde did not let go.

  “You are filth to be wiped from one’s shoe,” Morrigan said. “Remember your place or I will grant you your own ending here and now.”

  For an instant the hag’s face, half concealed behind her hair, contorted with rage. Then she whimpered submissively and the shrowde let her go. Her arm dropped and she backed away with her head down, her long bony fingers slithering in the dust.

  Morrigan glided past, with Will, Rowen and Shade following quickly, but they had only taken a few steps when a woman’s voice brought them to a sudden halt.

  “What of me, my lord Prince? Are we friends?”

  Rowen looked up in search of whoever had spoken and saw a figure at the top of the mound of trash. It appeared to be a dark-haired woman in an ash-grey gown with a ragged, spreading cape. Then Rowen saw the woman was hovering just above the trash mound, and what she had taken for a cape was a pair of huge mottled grey-and-black wings.

  The harrower called Gibbet gave a moan of fear at the sight of the hovering woman and cowered in the trash. Dirge lowered her head even closer to the ground and dug her claws into the muck.

  The third harrower’s wings fanned out with a shiver and she descended slowly toward them, her bare feet gliding just above the trash. Her long hair was as dark as Morrigan’s but pulled back severely from her face. She would have been beautiful, Rowen thought, if not for the shark-like blackness of her eyes, in which cold points of light glittered.

  “You have been gone such a long time, Lotan,” the woman said, raising her hands in greeting. Her fingers ended in long curved nails like a bird’s talons. “You and I have much to speak about.”

  Her voice was soft and even musical after the harsh croaking of Dirge, but Rowen heard the threat under its sweetness and she tensed, expecting violence. The woman hovered just above Morrigan, her wings still outspread and beating slowly. Too slowly, Rowen thought, as if she had some other means to keep herself aloft.

  Then it struck Rowen: the woman had called the Angel Lotan. She spoke to him as an equal, and that meant she was far more dangerous than the other harrowers.

  The woman studied Shade, then Will, then finally Rowen.

  “This must be the child we have heard of,” she said. “I congratulate you on finding her, though it is difficult to believe that such a pitiful thing could have cost the mighty Angel so much time and trouble. But now that your task is accomplished, surely you can spare a few moments to talk with me.”

  For a long while Morrigan did not reply. Rowen guessed that the shrowde knew nothing about this third harrower and Morrigan was uncertain how to respond without giving anything away.

  “My task is not finished,” Morrigan said at last. “And I have come too far to be waylaid with trifles.”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed. Her cold gaze travelled up and down the shrowde cloak.

  “It is no trifle, the matter between us, as you well know,” she said, all trace of pleasantness gone from her voice. “Our agreement was made long before you clothed yourself in that creature. Before you rose so high above the rest of us. You cannot walk away. Not from me.”

  “What is done is only what the One commands,” Morrigan said. “I will hear you when I return.”

  She moved to go around the woman, but the huge wings spread even wider to bar the shrowde’s way.

  “You will hear me?” the woman echoed, and then she laughed, a deep, harsh, hateful laugh that sent a shudder through Rowen. “No, we will speak now, because your life was once in my hands and I returned it to you. I will not be denied.”

  “You have your place here and your tasks to perform,” Morrigan said. “We all have our place. Nothing can change that.”

  “My place,” the woman hissed scornfully. “My place was beside you. Or so you swore to me. So you promised when I saved your life. We were to be consorts, equals in power and honour. That is what you told me. You swore on your flesh and spirit that you would raise me above this.”

  She gestured at Dirge and Gibbet, neither of whom had yet dared to look up in the woman’s presence.

  “That is what you swore to me when we were in each other’s arms, my lord,” the woman went on. “You cannot have forgotten. We were to rule together in the name of the One when the last of the Uneaten Lands had been devoured. You would not dare to pretend you have forgotten your oath.”

  Her voice shook with anger and wounded pride, and Rowen understood that the woman had once loved Lotan and had been loved by him in return.

  “You will stand aside, harrower,” Morrigan said, her voice weighted with such threat that the woman actually drew back a pace. Her black eyes glittered feverishly.

  “I will stand aside,” she said, “in exchange for the wolf and the boy.”

  “These uneaten ones are not for you or me. Stand aside.”

  “It is the girl who matters. She was the one foreseen. These others are of no consequence. Give me the wolf for a servant and the boy to feed upon, as a token of your good faith.”

  “Do not presume to know what is of consequence to the One,” Morrigan said in a voice so low and menacing that Rowen took an involuntary step away from her. “Now stand aside or I promise you will be cast down lower than these wretches at your feet and you will never rise again.”

  The woman’s pale lips trembled. Her grey wings stirred and then went still once more.

  “At least speak my name,” she said. “Show me that courtesy, my lord, before you break your word.”

  Her voice was mocking and despairing at the same time, yet Rowen had the feeling that this was also a carefully crafted performance. She feared the woman had guessed it was not Lotan underneath the shrowde, and her suspicions were about to be confirmed. And if that happened, Rowen was braced for an attack.

  Morrigan did not answer the woman’s question. The shrowde had known the names of Dirge and Gibbet, Rowen guessed, because she’d met them before, but she had never encountered this other harrower.

  “Speak it, my lord,” the woman said. “Why do you hesitate?”

  Just then Dirge, still cowering at their feet, reached out a bony hand to the fringe of the shrowde cloak.

  “Great Angel, if you punish Dama, do not harm poor Dirge,” she pleaded. “Destroy Gibbet, the worthless, if it pleases you, but do not punish poor Dirge, the faithful, who has grown old and feeble in the service of—”

  “Silence!�
�� the woman shrieked, and Dirge shrank from her with a terrified moan.

  “Whatever agreement there once was between us, Dama,” Morrigan said, “it is as dead and finished as if it had never been. All things begin and end in the One. Stand aside or be cast into the void.”

  “Now you remember my name,” the woman said, her eyes wide in a mockery of surprise. “I find it strange that you did not until Dirge spoke it. What happened to you in the Uneaten Lands, Lotan? Why were you gone so very long and what of the rumours that you had been ended? Why have you come this way, on this road you have never taken since you were given the keys of the realm?”

  “Enough of this,” Morrigan said, and the shrowde cloak reached out lashing white tentacles. Dirge and Gibbet groaned and blubbered in fear, burrowing themselves into the trash mound, but Dama did not move. One of the shrowde’s tentacles encircled her neck like the noose around Gibbet’s, but still she did not stir.

  “Do as you will, my lord,” she said, her voice fallen to a strained whisper. “Cast me into the void, since I am already nothing to you. But let me look upon your face as you do it.”

  Rowen held her breath. The shrowde drew its tentacle ever tighter around Dama’s neck. Then it loosened again and withdrew.

  “I will return when there is time and grant you the ending you seek,” Morrigan said. She swept past the winged woman, and Will, Rowen and Shade hurried after her. Rowen dared not glance back. She kept as close as she could to Will. Their eyes met, but only for an instant. It was too soon to let down their guard.

  They had crossed the pool and gone a short distance up the rising path on the far side when from behind them there came a sound of rushing wings. Rowen threw herself down, but it was too late. She felt claws bite into her shoulders and she was plucked from the ground and lifted helplessly into the air.

  She was in Dama’s clutches, rising powerlessly above the trash mounds.

  Rowen struggled and kicked her legs, but the woman’s arms held her fast. She heard Will shout “Let her go!” and saw him charge forward before the shrowde billowed out and held him back.

  “The boy dares to speak and to struggle?” Dama said, her breath cold on Rowen’s neck. “His spirit is not broken. How could the Prince of Shadows allow this?”

  “You will let the girl go, Dama,” Morrigan said in a slow, threatening voice. “She belongs to the One.”

  “Show me your face, Lotan,” Dama cried. “Do not hide from me behind that thing you befriended. Let me see your face or I will tear this mortal open and suck out her life, I swear it. And I do not break my promises.”

  The woman’s grip tightened and Rowen let out a cry of pain. Morrigan did not move.

  “Show me your face,” Dama repeated.

  Slowly Morrigan’s hands went up toward the hood of the cloak. Rowen looked on in despair, knowing that in another moment the deception would be over and with it would go all hope of finding Grandfather.

  Then a dark form sprang up the mound and leaped at Dama from the side.

  It was Shade.

  Dama turned to ward off the wolf, and Rowen was suddenly free of her grip and fell onto the trash mound, stunned. The harrower was knocked out of the air by the force of Shade’s attack. She and the wolf slammed into the mound near Rowen, who rolled out of the way. Dama snarled in rage and fear as the wolf snapped and clawed at her, snagging her robe and preventing her from rising. She beat her wings frantically and slashed at Shade, but the wolf evaded the blow and sank his fangs into her leg. Dama gave a shriek. Her talons swept down and this time they found their target. They raked across Shade’s muzzle and clawed at his eyes, until at last the wolf let go his grip and Dama writhed away, her wings billowing.

  She was rising now, escaping, but Shade made another leap and collided with her in the air, and then they were locked together, clawing and thrashing and struggling violently.

  Shade’s weight was pulling Dama down out of the sky, and now Morrigan was moving up the slope toward them, the shrowde cloak seeming to glide effortlessly over the jumbled trash. Dama saw her coming at almost the same moment Rowen did. The winged woman let out a hideous scream and struck Shade a torrent of vicious blows that finally succeeded in breaking his hold on her. Shade fell from the air and disappeared on the far side of the trash mound.

  Dama beat her bloodied wings and flapped away, shrieking and sobbing, until she was lost from sight. Rowen saw both Will and Morrigan climbing the slope toward her. She tried to rise, but the world seemed to tilt and slide underneath her. She fell back again and the shadows seemed to close over her head.

  17

  CORR STARED IMPASSIVELY AT Finn.

  “Brother,” he said with icy calm, “you know that even if I allow you to leave with the golem, you will have no chance of crossing the Valley of Fire alive, let alone reaching the Bourne. When you run out of gaal, how long do you think you’ll survive out there? Hours, at most.”

  “I know that, Corr. That’s why we’ll be taking one of your skyships.”

  Corr broke into a soft laugh.

  “You’re still feverish from your wound,” he said. “You can’t believe I would give you one of my ships for this fool’s errand.”

  “You will, Corr. Because if you don’t, I’ll command Ord to push every ship you have left over the edge of the pier.”

  Corr’s smile hardened into a grimace of rage.

  “Think carefully about what you’re saying, brother,” he breathed.

  “I’m going home in one of your skyships, Corr,” Finn said, turning away. “And, Doctor Alazar, I hope you’ll come with me.”

  “I will, Finn. There’s nothing more I can do here.”

  “You don’t turn your back on me, boy,” Corr roared, and he gripped Finn’s shoulder and spun him around. Finn offered no resistance. The golem, who had started forward at Finn’s command, stopped and waited.

  “I raised you,” Corr growled. “I taught you to hunt and fight and track. I taught you everything you know and this is how you repay me? Those Errantry fools swayed you against me.”

  “It wasn’t the Errantry, Corr,” Finn said, his voice shaking. “You gave me the gaal, remember? You taught me about that, too. I’m only doing to you what you do to everyone and everything around you.”

  Corr’s eyes blazed. He raised his fist as if about to strike Finn down. Finn did not move.

  A shout came from farther up the tunnel. Everyone turned to see three Stormriders with staves striding down the ramp. Between them were two dwarfs.

  “What is this?” Corr demanded.

  “My lord, we found them hiding in one of the other tunnels. They wouldn’t say anything other than to demand we take them to you.”

  The larger and younger of the dwarfs stared with frightened eyes at Corr and the others, his head shaking with a slight tremor that was not fear, Finn realized, but some sort of palsy. The other dwarf was very old. He was bald except for a few wisps of white hair about his ears, his seamed face crisscrossed with livid scars, his deep-set eyes two clouded and unseeing orbs. He looked familiar, and then Finn remembered seeing him at Corr’s fortress, on the observation platform. He was the ancient-looking smith whom Nonn had asked about the repairs to the ships.

  “What are your names?” Corr said, his voice calm and commanding again. He appeared to have forgotten Finn’s threat for the moment. For his part Finn waited to hear what the dwarfs had to say.

  The younger dwarf stepped forward.

  “I am Nar,” he said in a flat, guarded voice. His shaking head was hunched into his shoulders, as if he expected a sword blade to lop it off at any moment. “This is Tholl, my father. We weren’t hiding, my lord. We were trying to find you.”

  “Why didn’t you get away with the others?” Corr barked.

  “We did not know of Nonn’s plans, my lord, until he was already leaving. We did not wish to betray the Sky Lord, so we stayed behind.”

  “I don’t believe you. You’re trying to save your skin now
that you’ve been caught.”

  “They left us behind because we are worthless and slow, my lord,” said the old dwarf, his voice deep and ponderous, like the sound of something heavy and hollow being dragged across a stone floor. “I cannot see and so Nar must be my eyes. We cannot move quickly with all the rubble and filth choking the passageways. When Nonn saw his chance to bring down the slabs and abandon you here, we were busy helping your men figure out how to work the water pumps. We could not get away in time, so Nonn left us to your mercy.”

  Corr looked from father to son with a cold, calculating expression.

  “I think you were left behind on purpose,” he said. “I think Nonn ordered you to stay as spies or saboteurs, believing I wouldn’t suspect a blind old smith and his son. I should just throw the both of you over the parapet and be done with it.”

  “My lord, we are not spies,” Nar said quickly, his voice hoarse with fear. “I swear to you we had no part in Nonn’s plans.”

  “Nonn is my sister’s son,” the blind dwarf said, “but he has no love for us, his own kin. I lost my sight from years hunched over a workbench, crafting gears, ratchets, pins so fine that few could match them. My son, Nar, was my apprentice, but Nonn forced him to work in the tunnels below the fortress, scraping and scratching for just a little more of the gaal. There are poisonous fumes deep under the earth, and what they did to Nar you can see for yourself, Sky Lord. He can no longer carry on the work I trained him for, the craft that has been passed down in our family for generations. We have your precious gaal to thank for that.”

  “Father …” Nar said warningly.

  “You may not know or care, Sky Lord,” the old dwarf went on without heeding his son, “but mighty furnaces and bellows alone do not keep your ships in the sky. They would not obey the hand at the wheel so readily without hidden workings of great subtlety and precision. But the knowledge of these intricate devices will soon be lost, because Nonn tosses his tools away when they get old and worn out—tools like my son and me. He cares only about weapons. Crude, unskilful things good for nothing but killing.”