by Jack
Like the sleeping guards upstairs.
The thought had barely formed in Morghan’s mind before he was running again, jumping up the steps four at a time in a desperate race to get above the guardroom and bar the next door. If he could make it past, then there would only be the sentry above ... and Terril.
Maybe Terril’s alive thought Morghan. Please, please, let Terril be alive!
Kworquorakan stepped into his path, eyes still half-shut as if he merely slept, but his skin was pallid and blue around the mouth and eyes. He held a sword in a weak and clumsy grip, for the Dead spirit within him was not his own, and was too new to the body.
Morghan swept the sword to the floor and hammered the Dead guard to one side, rushing past before it could get up. He caught a glimpse through the open guardroom door, of the other Dead shambling from their beds, arming themselves slowly and stupidly.
Morghan shut the next door, and barred it twice. This door was almost as heavy as the lower gate, but he had no illusions about how long wood and iron alone could hold against the Dead and Free Magic. Despite his lack of breath and the wave of shock and weariness that threatened to overwhelm him, he calmed himself and found the Charter. For a moment he almost lost himself in the welcoming sea of marks, before training and desperation asserted control. He found the symbols he needed, cupped them in his hands, and pressed them against the door while he whispered their use-names.
Warm, soft light spilled out between his fingers and ran through the tight grain of the wood, swirling round and round as it sank deeper, strengthening and binding. Rivulets of gold ran from wood to stone, like tree roots seeking water deep underground. The iron hinges spewed rusty flakes as they took on a deep, yellow glow that was sunlight and gold and a comforting, well-banked fire.
Morghan turned away from the door and fell over, momentarily too weak to support himself. He jarred his bad elbow on the stone, but the pain helped, the old familiar sensation cutting through his exhaustion. He got up and picked up his pole-axe, only to see that the axe was notched and there was a crack in the shaft. His fight against the Dead below had been desperate indeed.
Morghan left the pole-axe where it lay and stumbled to the rack of crossbows on the wall. He took down his own, and the cranequin and quarrel, and quickly wound back the string and loaded a shaft. Then he thrust four more quarrels through his belt, and slowly began to climb the stairs.
He tried to be as quiet as he could, but within five steps this became unnecessary, as the Dead below attacked the door he had spelled shut. He heard the deep boom of heavy timber against timber and assumed that they had made a battering ram from one or more of the beds. Beds which should be made less sturdy so as not to be used against us, Morghan thought. Something to be noted for the Bridgemistress, and if she approved, a memorandum sent to Famagus for the other shifts.
Morghan slowed near the top. The battlements were reached by a ladder through a hatch, and this was open when it should not be. Tendrils of fog came spiralling down through the hatch, as if some hideous, tentacled sea creature of mist and dark vapour was squatting on the tower.
His crossbow held ready, Morghan moved underneath and looked up. But he couldn’t see anything but the fog, and he couldn’t hear anything, either, apart from the repeated crack and boom of the ram below.
Morghan started to climb the ladder with the crossbow at the ready, and found that he could not. He could not pull himself up or balance with his left arm. It would not support him, the elbow locking up or giving way, all flexibility lost. Morghan cursed under his breath and put the crossbow down to take up one of his thin daggers in his left hand. He could barely manage even that slight weight, but at least he could climb with his right hand.
But I won’t be much use in a fight, Morghan thought. When I stick my head up through that hatch, there’ll be ... there’ll likely be two Dead on me right away ... I can’t win ... I can’t do any good ... but I have to try ... whoever is attacking us, they mustn’t cross the bridge ... they will not cross the bridge ...my bridge ...’
Morghan took a breath, and began to climb. Slowly at first, then as he neared the top, it became a sudden, scrabbling rush and he burst out onto the battlements like a startled pheasant from the heath, sending the fog swirling in all directions.
Two bodies lay near the hatch. The guard Farremon was dead, pale and blue. But Terril’s chest rose and fell slowly. Morghan put his dagger down, ready to hand, and quickly pushed Farremon’s body through the open hatch, slamming it shut afterwards and locking the bar. Then he turned to Terril. Her eyes were half-open, but she looked drugged and insensible. Her hand was on her breast, and there were three faint Charter marks drawn there, pulsing in time with a very slow heartbeat.
‘Terril!’ said Morghan. ‘Terril!’
There was no answer. The death magic that had come with the fog had not claimed Terril, but it had left her fighting for her life. Perhaps the spell was weaker, higher up, Morghan thought. Not that it mattered.
He reclaimed his dagger, drew his sword, and went to the northern battlements to look over the side. All he could see was thick, white fog, completely cloaking the bastion, hiding it from the Northern Fort and the southern shore. He couldn’t even see directly below, though he could hear the clank and jangle of armour and weapons on the boardwalk, in between the booms of the ram on the lower door. There were a lot of enemy out there, scores of them, if not more.
But the continued booming was oddly reassuring. It meant that the door, or more likely at this point, the spell alone, still held. When he didn’t hear it, but heard instead the clatter of feet on the stair, that would be ... well ... the end.
I’m not thinking straight. I need to warn the fort, and the ferry ... and all the waiting merchants ...
Morghan’s head hurt, almost as much as his elbow, and he now knew that it was possible to feel even more exhausted than was the usual lot of a cadet on the bridge. It took a supreme effort to prise himself from the embrasure and walk over to the great horn that hung between two iron posts.
He leaned forward to set his lips to the horn, ready to blow the alert, when he saw that it was split at the mouth, riven in two. At the same time, he tasted hot metal that blistered his tongue. The horn had been split by magic, and that was no mean feat, unseen from below.
Or was it done unseen? Morghan thought. Is there someone else up here, in the fog?
Morghan stepped back and almost fell over before he managed to spread his feet and steady himself. Despite his pain and weariness he was thinking faster now, aware that he might have very little time.
One of the several hundred new Charter marks he had learned over the winter was the one that was the scream of the saffron-tailed kite, only the Bridgemistress wound into it another mark, one of magnification, that made the scream louder, more than a hundred times louder.
But they were difficult marks, not old familiar ones that he knew well. He might well meet the death of his grandmother, seeking to find and wield such marks when he was already so weary.
So be it, thought Morghan. Better to die here than in an alley in Belisaere. I have had my winter, and it is enough.
He knelt down, and rested his hands on the hilt of his sword, setting the point deep in a crack between the flagstones. Then he went into the Charter once more, knowing it was one time too many, that his weary body could not bear to harness the power he sought. Not and live to speak of it.
The first mark, the cry of the bird, he found easily, and he let it slide from his hands into the sword. The second was more difficult, and his vision swam and his breath grew ever more ragged before at last he pushed through a swarm of too-bright marks and caught the one he sought, and sent it into the blade too.
With the spell ready, and his strength fading fast, Morghan left the flow of the Charter and brought himself back to the foggy battlements. Slowly, ever so slowly, he rose to his feet and prepared to lift his sword, to send his signal flying to the night sky above the fog.
/>
But the blade was stuck. Morghan pulled at it, and almost had it free when he saw that he was no longer alone. Someone ... or something ... was slipping over the battlements. It stopped to fix its gaze upon him, and then came stalking towards him.
Morghan knew what it was at once, for it was part of his lessons. It was why the company’s guards carried pole-axes, to fight such a thing of stone, impervious to lighter weapons. Carved from solid rock to match the fetish of one of the tribes of the far steppe and infused with a Free Magic spirit to make it live and move; this was a Spirit-Walker.
It moved towards him, not lumbering as one might expect a statue to do, but more like a stalking insect, all sharp starts and flurries. It was man-like in the sense that it had two legs and two arms, but the legs were long, and the arms jointed backwards and ended in wedges of sharpened stone.
One cruel wedge shot forward. Morghan twisted aside, too slowly, and his hauberk was sliced open as if it were no more than thin cloth, and he felt the sudden pain of a deep wound. At the same time, he wrenched his sword free and thrust it forward in riposte, though he knew no mere blade could harm a spirit-walker.
The riposte missed, but drawing back, the very tip of the sword touched the Spirit-Walker on its backward-jointed elbow.
Morghan felt the connection to his very bones. He felt the ancient, malevolent spirit inside, striving to do as it was bid and slay him, and he felt the stone that it inhabited, and at once knew every fissure, every faint crack and weakness.
‘Go,’ whispered Morghan to his spell, and he fell backwards, all strength gone.
The marks left the blade, and not hundreds but thousands of saffron-tailed kites screamed their hunting scream inside the Spirit-Walker’s stony flesh, the sound resonating and echoing along every crack, growing and expanding, fighting to get out.
The Spirit-Walker took one further step, then exploded into powder as the distress call of the bastion echoed through the river valley, to the North Fort, and the ferry stations, and up the road and beyond the hills, to Navis and even to the very walls of Belisaere.
The great scream blew away the fog, and under sudden moon and starlight, a necromancer cursed and hurried back along the boardwalk. His Dead bashed once more at the door, then fell, the spirits too weak to sustain themselves in Life without their master. Hundreds of nomad tribesmen, spread out along the bridge, heard what they thought was the death-cry of their Spirit-Walker. They saw their necromancer flee and turned to run with him. The great raid upon the southern lands, so long in the making, had failed before it had really begun.
At the Ferry Station, Amiel cast a spell that sent a night-bird of dull Charter marks flying faster than any bird to the Glacier of the Clayr, and then another, like as a twin, winged south to Navis. But even as the magical birds left her hand, she was running for her horse, and shouting orders, with Limath at her heels, spitting out the over-large mouthful of cake he had just wedged in his mouth.
Atop the bastion, Morghan looked at the stars, now so clear in the sky. They looked welcoming to him, something he had not thought about before. If he’d had the strength, he would have raised a hand to them, but he’d could not. Besides, he could feel the river calling to him, could hear the roar of the Greenwash — or perhaps it was some other river, for it did not sound entirely the same ...
‘You are not allowed to die, cadet,’ said a voice near at hand.
Morghan slowly moved one eye to see who was speaking to him.
It was Terril, who was crawling over to him. Her hand moved across his face and climbed to his forehead, and two fingers touched the Charter Mark there. He felt some small spark of power flow from her, a faint thread that nevertheless was strong enough to arrest the pull of the unseen river and lessen the attraction of the distant stars.
‘I said you are not allowed to die, Cadet Morghan! Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Second,’ whispered Morghan. He did understand, and in that moment, he knew that he would not die. Terril held him back, and Terril was the company, and the company was the bridge, and he was part of it, and always would be, and one day he would be a Second and a Bridgemaster too, for he had not failed the test.
He had held the bridge.
* * * *
Afterword
I often find it difficult to remember the genesis of a story, or sometimes there just isn’t any identifiable spark or catalyst that sets everything in motion. Also, often the basic idea doesn’t end up being related to the eventual story at all, it is like a booster rocket that falls away, while the story speeds on without it.
However, in the case of ‘To Hold the Bridge’ I can pin down the source of inspiration, and the basic idea ended up being very much part of the narrative. As with many of my ideas, the spark came from history. I was reading a most excellent book called Power and Profit: The Merchant in Medieval Europe by Peter Spufford (Thames & Hudson, 2002) and was particularly fascinated by a chapter called ‘Helps and hindrances to trade’ which focuses on bridges, roads, rivers and all the means by which medieval goods got to market.
From that book, and from real history, I got the idea of a long-lived company involved in constructing an important bridge, and in turn I set that in the established realm of my Old Kingdom novels. All I had to do then was to find a story to tell against that backdrop, and as I often do, I began with a character who would discover the world of the Bridge Company with me, and then with the reader.
— Garth Nix
<
* * * *
Trudi Canavan lives in Melbourne, Australia. She has been making up stories about people and places that don’t exist for as long as she can remember. Her first short story, ‘Whispers of the Mist Children’, received an Aurealis Award for Best Fantasy Short Story in 1999. When she recovered from the surprise, she went on to finish the fantasy novel-that-became-three, the bestselling Black Magician Trilogy: The Magicians’ Guild, The Novice and The High Lord followed by another trilogy, Age of the Five. Last year the prequel to the Black Magician Trilogy, The Magician’s Apprentice was released and she is now working on the sequel, the Traitor Spy Trilogy. One day she will write a series that doesn’t contain three books.
* * * *
The Mad Apprentice:
A Black Magician Story
Trudi Canavan
The sumi pot rose in the air seemingly of its own volition, tilted and poured the hot drink into her cup. Indria looked at her brother. He grinned, and she rolled her eyes.
‘I see your magic training is coming along well, Tagin,’ she observed.
Tagin waved dismissively at the pot as it settled on the table again. ‘That was nothing. First year exercises. Boring.’
Sipping the hot drink, Indria considered her brother over the rim of her cup. His eyes were bright and he had fidgeted constantly since arriving. This usually meant he was in a good mood. When he was hunched and glowering she had to be doubly careful what she said and did, as his temper was much easier to spark. But something was different about him today. Though he was cheerful, there was a hint of tension in his movements, and his eyes kept darting about the room.
‘Is what you’re learning now more interesting?’
‘With Magician Herrol teaching me?’ He sniffed derisively and looked away. ‘Hardly.’
Indria suppressed a sigh and put down her cup. Tagin had been an apprentice magician for over two years but, like with most of his obsessions, he had grown impatient with his training and teacher. Usually he found something new to engage his brilliant mind. But magic was no hobby or pastime. It was supposed to become the source of his income and place in society. If he ended his apprenticeship, rather than remaining until his master taught him higher magic and granted him independence, he would not receive income from the king, or attract work from the Houses.
‘Perhaps if Magician Herrol moved back to the city — to the Guild — it would be better. You’d have a greater variety of teachers.’
Tagin sneered.
‘He suggested it, but what’s the point? All the Guild magicians are like him: stuffy old men. I’d rather be away from them, but close enough to visit you.’ He smiled. ‘You wouldn’t want me to leave you all alone with Demrel for company, would you?’
Indria grimaced. Lord Demrel was an excellent husband, according to her family. He’d improved their connections among the Houses, earning them valuable favours in trade. He was wealthy and generous. But he was also a boorish, possessive man, and old enough to be her father. Growing up with her volatile brother had taught her how to handle difficult men, and Demrel was a lot less troublesome than Tagin. But she hated how Demrel treated her like a child and an idiot.
Tagin may be a handful, but he doesn’t think I’m stupid, she thought. And at least he loves me — in his way.
‘When we rule the world, I’ll build us a palace in the city,’ Tagin said, his eyes flashing. ‘We’ll get rid of Demrel and all the boring, old magicians.’