by Tad Williams
“It’s me, Father,” he said quietly, as he stepped out of the trees into the small clearing. He stopped, astonished. A startlingly white face looked up, black eyes narrowing. Strangyeard was slumped in the arms of this dark-clad attacker, sleeping or senseless. A knife blade like the thorn of a great ebony rose lay against the priest’s exposed neck.
Even as Deornoth threw himself forward, he saw two more pallid, slit-eyed faces in the night-shadows and called them by their old name. “White Foxes!” he shouted. “The Norns! We are attacked!”
Bellowing, he struck the pale-skinned thing and grappled it with his arms. They toppled, the archivist tangled with them, so that for a moment Deornoth was lost in a welter of flailing limbs. He felt the thing reach out for him, its thin limbs full of slithery strength. Hands grasped at his face and pushed back his chin to expose his neck. Deornoth flung out his fist, which landed on something hard as bone. He was rewarded by a hissing cry of pain. Now he could hear crashing and shouting in the trees all around. He wondered dimly whether it meant more foes, or that his friends were awake at last.
Sword! he thought. Where’s my sword?
But it was caught in the scabbard, twisted around on his belt. The moonlight seemed to burst into brilliance. The white face rose before him once more, lips skinned back, teeth bared like a drowning cur. The eyes that locked with his were as coldly inhuman as sea-stones. Deornoth fumbled for his dagger. The Norn grasped at his throat with one hand; its other hand, a pale blur, lifted free.
He has a knife! Curiously, Deornoth felt as though he were floating on a wide river, carried forward on a slow and generous current, but at the same moment panicky thoughts flew around his head like grassflies. Damn me, I forgot his knife!
He stared for another endless instant at the Norn before him, at the thin, otherworldly features, the white spiderweb hair matted across the brow, the faint lips drawn tight against the red gums. Then Deornoth swung his head forward, smashing his forehead into the cadaverous face. Before he had even felt the first shock, he threw himself forward again into yet another red impact. A great shadow mushroomed inside him. The shrieks and night wind faded to a muted and diminishing hum and the moon was drenched with clinging darkness.
When he could think again, he looked up to see Einskaldir, who seemed to be swimming toward him, arms windmilling, his war-axe a shimmering smear. The Rimmersman’s mouth was open as though he shouted, but Deornoth heard no sound. Josua came just behind. Deornoth’s two companions flung themselves against another pair of shadowy figures. Blades whirled and glinted, slicing the darkness with stripes of reflected moonlight. Deornoth wanted to stand and help them, but a weight lay upon him, some amorphous, unshakable burden. He struggled, wondering where his strength had gone, until the burden fell away at last and left him exposed to the rasping wind.
Josua and Einskaldir were still moving before him, their faces weird masks in the blue night. Other two-legged shapes were beginning to appear from the forest shadows, but Deornoth could not tell if they were friends or foes. His sight seemed to be obscured—something was in his eyes, something that stung. He moved his hands questingly over his face. It was wet and sticky. His fingers, when he held them up to catch the light, were black with blood.
A long, damp tunnel led down through the hillside. A narrow, torchlit staircase ran through it, half a thousand mossy, centuried steps that snaked down through the very heart of Sta Mirore, from Count Streáwe’s great house to a small, hidden dock. Miriamele guessed that the tunnel had been the salvation of many an earlier nobleman, forced to flee his stately quarters by night when the peasantry became unexpectedly frisky or turned disputatious about the rights of the privileged.
After the end of a foot-wearying journey under the watchful eyes of Lenti and another of the count’s closed-faced servants, Miriamele and Cadrach found themselves standing on a stone landing beneath an overhanging arch of cliff, the slate-colored harbor waters spread before them like a disheveled carpet. Just below, a small rowboat bobbed at the end of its painter.
A few moments later Streáwe himself arrived by another path, carried down the winding cliff roads in his carved and becurtained litter by four brawny men wearing sailors’ garb. The old count wore a heavy cloak and muffler against the night fog. Miriamele thought that the sallow light of dawn made him look ancient.
“So,” he said, waving for his bearers to lower him to the stone platform, “our time together is at an end.” He smiled ruefully. “I feel a deep regret at letting you go—not least because the Victor of Naglimund, your beloved father Elias, would pay much for your safe return.” He shook his head and coughed. “Still, I am a honorable man, and an obligation unpaid is a ghost unshriven, as we say here in Perdruin. Say hello to my friend when you meet him. Extend my regards.”
“You haven’t told us who this ’friend’ is,” Miriamele said tightly. “The one to whom we are being given.”
Streáwe waved his hand dismissively. “If he wishes you to know his true name, he will tell you himself.”
“And you will be setting us across to Nabban on the open sea in this tiny little isgbahta,” Cadrach growled, “—this fishing boat?”
“It is scarcely a stone’s throw,” the count said. “And you will have Lenti and Alespo along to protect you from kilpa and such.” He indicated the two servants with a wave of his trembling hand. Lenti was chewing sullenly at something. “You don’t think I would let you go alone, do you?” Streáwe smiled. “How could I ever be sure you would reach my friend and resolve my debt?”
He waved for his servants to lift the litter. Miriamele and Cadrach were herded into the pitching boat, squeezed side by side into the tiny bow.
“Do not think unkindly of me, Miriamele and Padreic, I beg you,” Streáwe called as his servants wrestled him back up the slippery stairs. “My little island must maintain a delicate balance, a very delicate balance. Sometimes the adjustments seem cruel.” He pulled the curtain closed before him.
The one whom Streáwe had called Alespo untied the rope and Lenti reached out with his oar to push the little wooden boat away from the dock. As they drifted slowly away from the light of the dockside lanterns, Miriamele felt her heart sinking. They were going to Nabban, a place that now held little hope for her. Cadrach, her only ally, had been sullenly quiet since they had been reunited—and what name had Streáwe called him? Where had she heard that before? Now she herself was being sent to some unknown friend of Count Streáwe’s, a pawn in some sort of strange business arrangement. And everyone, from the local nobles to the hum-blest peasant, seemed to know her affairs better than she did herself. What else could go wrong?
Miriamele let out a sigh of grief and frustration.
Lenti, seated across from her, stiffened. “Don’t try anything, now,” he growled. “I have a knife.”
5
Singing Man’s House
Simon slapped a hand against the cold stone wall of the cave and felt a strange satisfaction at the pain. “Bleeding Usires!” he swore. “Bleeding Usires, Usires bleeding on the Tree!” He raised an arm to strike the wall again, but instead dropped it to his side and dug furiously at his breeches-leg with his fingernails.
“Calm y‘rself, boy,” Haestan said. “Was naught we c’do.”
“I won’t let them kill him!” He turned to Haestan imploringly. “And Geloë said we must go to the Stone of Farewell. I don’t even know where that is!”
Haestan shook his head unhappily. “Whatever this stone may be. I’ve not understood ye right since fell down and struck y’r head this afternoon. Y’ve been talkin’ moon-mad. But about th’ troll an’ Rimmersman—what can we do?”
“I don’t know!” Simon barked. He put out his aching hand to lean against the wall. The night wind keened beyond the door-flap. “Free them,” he said at last. “Free them both—Binabik and Sludig.” The tears he had felt himself holding back were gone. He suddenly felt cold-minded and full of strength.
Haestan started
to reply, then checked himself. He looked at the youth’s trembling fists and the livid scar striping his cheek. “How, then?” he asked quietly. “Two ’gainst a mountain?”
Simon stared furiously. “There must be a way!”
“Th‘only rope trolls took with Binabik’s pack. Down a deep hole they are, lad. With guards ’round.”
After a long moment, Simon turned and slid down to sit on the cave floor, pushing away the sheepskin rug to bring himself as close as possible to the unforgiving rock.
“We can’t just let them die, Haestan. We can’t. Binabik said his people would throw them from the cliffs. How can they be such ... such demons!?”
Haestan squatted and poked the coals with his knife. “I’ve no understanding of heathens and suchlike,” the bearded guardsman said. “They be tricksy folk. Why should they prison them and give us freedom—an’ leave our weapons besides?”
“Because we’ve got no rope,” Simon said bitterly, and shivered. He was finally beginning to feel the cold. “Besides, even if we killed the guards, what good would it do us? They’d throw us down the mountain as well, and no one would ever take Thorn back to Josua.” He thought. “Perhaps we could steal some rope?”
Haestan looked doubtful. “In darkness, in a strange place? Like as not we’d just rouse guards an’ get spear-stabbed.”
“Damnation and sin! We must do something, Haestan! Are we cowards? We can’t just stand by.” A sharp wind stabbed in past the door curtain. He hugged his arms tight around his chest. “At the very least, I’m going to have that Herder’s rotten little head off. Then they can kill me, too, and I won’t care.”
The guardsman smiled sadly. “Ah, boy, y‘r talkin’ stupid. Said y’rself someone must take that black sword t‘Prince Josua.” He indicated cloth-wrapped Thorn lying beside the cavern wall. “If the sword be not taken t’prince, Ethelbearn and Grimmric died for naught. That’d be cruel shame. Too many hopes, slender ‘uns though may be, rest on yon blade.” Haestan chuckled. “ ’Sides, lad, d‘ye think they’d spare one if th’ other killed their king? Y’r bound t‘get me killed, too.” Haestan poked at the fire again. “No, no, ye be green yet an’ don’t understand th’ world. Ye’ve not been in war, lad, like me—not seen what I have. Didn’t I see two of my fellows die just since we left Naglimund? The Good God saves his justice and such for th’ Day of Weighin’ Out. ’Til then, we have t‘look t’ourselves.” He leaned forward as he began to warm to the topic. “Each ’un must do his best, but things can’t always be made right, Simon ...”
He stopped abruptly, staring at the doorway. Seeing the look of surprise on the soldier’s round face, Simon turned swiftly. A figure had stepped past the flap of hide.
“Th’ troll girl,” Haestan breathed softly, as though she might startle and bolt like a fawn. Sisqinanamook’s eyes were wide with apprehension, but Simon also saw determination in the set of her jaw. He thought she looked readier to fight than to flee.
“Do you come to gloat?” he asked angrily.
Sisqinanamook steadfastly returned his stare. “Help me,” she said at last.
“Elysia, Mother of God,” Haestan gasped, “she can talk!”
The troll maiden shied back at the guardsman’s outburst, but held her ground. Simon clambered up onto his knees before her. Kneeling, he was still taller than Binabik’s once-betrothed.
“Can you speak our tongue?”
She looked at him for a moment as if puzzled, then made a sign with crossed fingers. “Little,” she said. “Little talk. Binabik teach.”
“I should have guessed,” Simon said. “Binabik has been trying to pound things into my head as long as I’ve known him.”
Haestan snorted. Simon gestured for Sisqinanamook to enter. She slithered away from the door-flap, crouching near the cave’s entrance with her back against the wall. A snow serpent carved in relief upon the stone coiled about her head like a saint’s halo.
“Why should we help you?” Simon said. “And help you do what?”
She stared at him uncomprehendingly. He repeated himself more slowly. “Help Binbinaqegabenik,” she replied at last. “Help me, help Binabik.”
“Help Binabik?” Haestan hissed in surprise. “Why, y’r what’s got him in trouble!”
“How?” Simon asked. “Help Binabik how?”
“Go away,” Sisqinanamook replied. “Binabik go away Mintahoq.” She reached under her thick hide jacket. For a moment Simon feared some kind of trick—had she understood enough of what they had been saying to know they were discussing a rescue?—but when her small hand appeared again it bore a coil of slender gray rope. “Help Binabik,” she repeated. “You help, I help.”
“Merciful Aedon,” said Simon.
They quickly gathered up all their belongings, throwing them into two packs with little concern for order. When they were finished and had donned their fur-lined cloaks, Simon went to the corner of the room where the black sword Thorn lay—the object, as Haestan had said, of many hopes, fruitless or otherwise. In the dim firelight it was only a sword-shaped hole in the furs that cradled it. Simon pressed its cold surface with his fingers, remembering how it had felt when he raised it before the onrushing Igjarjuk. For a moment it seemed to grow warm beneath his hand.
Someone touched him on the shoulder.
“No, no kill,” Sisqinanamook said. She pointed frowningly at the sword, then tugged gently at his arm. Simon wrapped his hand around Thorn’s cord-wrapped hilt and hefted: it was too heavy to lift without using both arms. As he struggled upright, he turned to the troll maiden.
“I’m not bringing it to kill anybody. This is the reason we went to the dragon-mountain. No kill.”
She stared at him, then nodded.
“Let me carry it, lad,” Haestan said. “I’m rested.”
Simon bit back a sullen retort and let him take the sword. It seemed no lighter in the burly guardsman’s hands, but no heavier either. Haestan reached over his head and carefully eased Thorn’s black length down through a pair of thick loops on the back of his pack.
It’s not my sword, Simon reminded himself. I knew that already. And Haestan’sright to take it—I’m too weak. He felt his thoughts wandering. It doesn’t belong to anyone. It belonged to Sir Camaris once, but he’s dead. Seems almost to have a spirit of its own ...
Well, if Thorn wanted to leave this God-cursed mountain, it would have to go down with them.
They extinguished the fire and went silently out past the door-flap. The chill night air made Simon’s head throb. He stopped in the doorway.
“Haestan,” he whispered, “you must promise me something.”
“What’s that, lad?”
“I don’t feel very ... strong. It’s going to be a long walk to wherever we’re going. In the snow, too. So if anything happens to me ...” he hesitated for a moment, “if anything happens to me, please bury me someplace warm.” He shivered. “I’m tired of being cold.”
For a moment Simon had the embarrassing idea that Haestan might cry. The guardsman’s bearded face screwed up in a strange grimace as he leaned in to look closely at Simon. A moment later he grinned, although the smile seemed a bit forced, and wrapped one of his bearlike arms around Simon’s quaking shoulders. “Here now, lad, no way t‘talk,” he whispered. “It’ll be long march, an’ cold, too, that’s sure—but not as bad as y’think. We’ll all make it through.” Haestan snuck a look at Sisqinanamook, who was staring impatiently at them from the porch outside the cavern. “Jiriki left us horses,” he hissed into Simon’s ear, “at mountain-bottom, stabled in cave. Told me where. So dunna fear, lad, dunna fear. If we but knew where ’tis we go—why, we’d be halfway there!”
They pushed out onto the stone track, squinting their eyes against a fierce wind that scraped the face of Mintahoq like a razor. The mists had blown away. A cat’s-eye sliver of yellow moon glared down on the mountain and shadow-blanketed valley. Staggering under their heavy loads, they turned to follow the one small shadow that wa
s Sisqinanamook.
It was a long, silent trek around the edge of Mintahoq, stumbling through the buffeting wind. After a few hundred paces Simon already felt his steps slowing. How would he ever climb all the way down the mountain? And why couldn’t he shake off this cursed weakness?
At last the troll maiden gestured them to a halt, then directed them into a crevice, off the pathway and back into the shadows. It was a tight squeeze because of their bulky packs, but with the help of Sisqinanamook’s small hands they managed to slide in. A moment later she was gone. They stood, pinioned, and watched their breath fill the mouth of the crevice, glittering in the moonlight.
“What d’ye think she’s about?” Haestan whispered at last.
“I don’t know.” Simon was happy just to lean against the stone. Out of the wind, he suddenly felt flushed and dizzy. The White Arrow given to him by Jiriki was digging at his spine through the heavy cloth of his pack.
“We be coney-catched, an’ no mistake ...” Haestan began, but the sound of voices on the path silenced him. As the voices grew louder, Simon caught his breath and held it.
A triumvirate of trolls stumped down the trail past the crevice, dragging the butts of their sharp spears carelessly along the stone, talking in their low, grumbling tongue. All three carried shields of stretched hide. One had a ram’s horn dangling from his belt; Simon had no doubt that a call from that instrument would bring well-armed trolls tumbling out of the caves all around like ants from a shaken nest.
The horn-bearer said something and the group paused just before the hiding spot. Simon struggled to hold his breath and felt his head whirl. A moment later the trolls burst into a fizz of quiet laughter as the story was completed, then continued their march back around the face of the mountain. In a few moments their quiet chatter had dwindled away.