by Simon Kewin
Then Bethany was there, a looming face, a hand stroking Cait's hair. Worry creased the witch-girl's features. “The crows, Cait. You must listen to them.”
“What's happening?” Cait managed.
“The fog claims you. You have to wake up or you'll never wake again.”
“I don't understand.”
“You're turning to ice in your sleep. Some cold is too much. You have to wake up.”
Cait tried to rise, but her numb limbs refused to respond. “Help me, Bethany.”
The witch-girl bent down and breathed into Cait's mouth, as if resuscitating her. The trickle of warmth was welcome. It revived her a little and she tried to struggle to her feet.
“Cait, wait. There's something else.” Bethany looked confused, staring into the fog.
“What?”
“Nearby. Very nearby. There's a friend as well.”
“Ran?”
“No, no. A different friend. He's real! He's here. All this time I thought he was like me.”
“Wait. What? Who's here?”
“Just a whisper in my mind for all these years. But he's here. Come to help. But you need to act, too, Cait. Wake up, now. Wake up. Hurry, hurry, hurry.”
With an effort she forced herself from sleep, expecting to find Charis and his undain nightmares surrounding them in a ring. Instead she lay in a pearly white glow. The mist was real, lit by the first light from an invisible dawn. It had crept over them in the night as Bethany had said, snuffing out the fire, sending its tendrils into them.
With a cry Cait scrambled to her feet, limbs awkward and sluggish. She could see nothing beyond the fog. There was no sign of Nox or Lugg or Ran. She had no idea what was out there, what monsters lurked just beyond her vision.
She spun in a circle but it made no difference. Had their attackers crept up under cover of the mist, or had they conjured it? She felt something within the fog. A deep, slow movement. An intent. Then she understood. The mist was their attacker. The mist or the thing that looked like a mist.
There was a cold, slow intelligence to it. Slow but vast, as if the whole of the fog was its thin mind. She caught glimpses of the core of its being. Endless and ancient, it drifted over the land, craving the warmth and intricacy of those that fled from it, those who shut it out with doors and windows, or held it back with flames. It had roamed the darkness for countless aeons, its hunger for the heat of life, limitless. And when it found that life, as it had now, it fed. It would drain the warmth from their bodies and minds and offer only ice in payment.
Desperately, Cait tried to find the others in the mists. Rouse them before they succumbed. But perhaps they already had succumbed. She could feel no spark of life anywhere near. Not even Ran, endlessly wary of attack. Perhaps he had seen only a winter's mist and had lain down by the fire to find what warmth he could. Lain down and never stood again.
With a cry of fury and fear, Cait reached for her magic. Ice and cold was how she worked magic, how she understood it, but what use would that be here? She needed fire, not ice. She needed to balance the cold, dispatch it rather than seek it out. She feared fire, everyone knew that, but sometimes you had to use your weaknesses, your fears, rather than your strengths.
She found the remains of the campfire by smell as much as anything: charring wood, the faint scent of burning leaves. She took two steps toward it and could discern, dimly, the glow of its smouldering ash. She worked her magic, sending out whatever power she could muster to fan the flames.
The fire roared blue, burning brightly and driving away the creeping fog. It recoiled as if injured. In the widened circle of light, Ran, Nox and Lugg were huddled lumps on the ground, unmoving.
Then the fire faded. The flames needed something to burn and there was nothing left. The mist closed in again. She felt the slow hunger in it mounting inexorably.
She tried again, fuelling the fire with the strength of her own body, the raking pains pulling at her muscles. The fire flared, but dimly this time, and in a few seconds it was gone. The mist closed about her once more.
She crouched to the ground, holding her stomach against the cramps. She had to fight. Could the mist survive in the daylight, or would it dissipate? If she could hold it off for a few more moments, perhaps the rising sun would come to her rescue. She called on Bethany, and between them they stoked the flames a third time.
It was futile. Even with Bethany's guidance and help she could summon only a brief flicker. Then the mist was upon her, seeping into her, finding her mouth and nose and ears, feeling its way into her mind.
She had come all this way to die in the freezing wastes. The unfairness of it made her weep. People had depended on her and she'd failed.
Then red lights flared around her. Roaring flames swept backward and forward, burning into the mist, brushing it away like an artist repainting the hard details of the world. The fires were torches and hands held them, whirling around to banish the mist. Figures. Men or women, swathed in thick furs.
Cait cried and tried to rise, but the world swam and she lurched back to the ground. She was spent. All her strength was gone, given to the flames. And something else: perhaps something of that cold fog had seeped into her, numbing her. She didn't know. She fell. But it was darkness, a welcome darkness, that consumed her, not the limitless hunger of the white mists.
Her last conscious thought was that she had to stop passing out like this. It was starting to get embarrassing.
The full warmth of the sun on her face roused her. She sat up with a gasp of surprise. Figures stood around her: the swathed figures she'd seen with the torches. They were all normal people like her. She could sense the presence of no undain nearby. Although, in truth, she felt too groggy to concentrate properly. She studied the figures, trying to understand. She was sure she'd never seen any of them before in her life.
Someone had placed furs over her. Animal furs to keep her warm. Back home she would have recoiled in horror, but she let it pass. Nox and Lugg, a few yards away on the other side of the rekindled fire, were covered up too. Only Ran was awake. He stood stretching his muscles, running through the moves of some exercise regime that was part-dance, part sword-fight. He nodded his head when he saw she was awake but carried on with his routine.
One of their rescuers knelt beside her. An old man, his face lined with deep wrinkles. He was bald, and a gleam of sweat slicked his scalp. There was a clear look of concern in his eyes as he studied her.
“Hello, Cait. It is good to see you.”
How come people knew who she was all the time? Did everyone in Angere know about her?
“Uh, hi.”
“Are you feeling well after your ordeal? Sun and fire will warm you back to life. You will be as good as new in an hour or two.”
That was good to know. She hadn't felt as good as new for a long time. “What was that thing? That mist? Was it some sort of undain?”
“No, no. Something far older. It has drifted around these mountains for years uncounted. It was here before the first men came, and it will be here when we are all dead and gone.”
“I felt its hunger. Such a terrible hunger.”
“Yes. It is a being of the aether. You have heard of such creatures, have you not? The one Fer summoned into the Tanglewood? This was one of them.” The man sat beside her, groaning slightly with the effort of getting to the ground. “Somehow, long ago, it found a crack in the walls and seeped into our world in search of sensation and warmth. Perhaps the wyrm roads attracted it here, summoned it from more distant lands. I don't know. But it's here and there's nothing we can do about it but dispel it when we must. Fire is too much for it. It craves the heat, but it recoils and burns from direct flame.” He glanced aside at her, as if aware of the weight those words would carry with her.
Cait, head still full of wool, tried to make sense of everything. “Wait. How do you know all this stuff? How do you know about Fer? And how come you can speak English? Who are you?”
“Forgive me. Let
me introduce myself. People call me Phoenix. Not my real name, you understand. My real name is actually rather dull. Phoenix is more of a title. Actors come and go but the role remains.”
“Actors?”
“I'm the ninth or tenth Phoenix, I think.”
“And you're the leader of the rebels?”
The old man smiled to himself as if she had told a joke. “Yes, that's me. This is us. You see about you the mighty warriors of The Freeborn. The Last True Men. The Smouldering Fire.”
She couldn't stop herself counting. Apart from the old man there were seven of them. A couple lay on the floor as if exhausted. Others watched over Lugg and Nox. Some were younger, but most were nearly as old as the man. They each had a wiry strength to them, though, as if used to hardship. Were they all people who had fled the horrors of the Ritual to live freely in the cold north? They weren't much of an army, but the sight of them warmed her heart. There were normal people in Angere. Normal, mortal people living out their days free from the Witch King and the undain.
“Not very impressive, are we?” the man said. “Hardly a threat to Menhroth.” He seemed saddened by his own words.
“This is all there are of you?”
Amusement twinkled in his eyes. “Oh, no. There are several more back at the fortress who weren't well-enough to travel. We saw you approaching and hurried to meet you. It was fortunate we reached your camp just as the aether-being found you. Another few minutes and you would never have awoken.”
“But how did you see us? And you still haven't explained how you know about Fer. And about me.”
He looked a little troubled by her question. “I will tell you. But you must understand I do not like to intrude. I only do so when it seems important. To follow events. I know it's no defence, but I don't ever feel comfortable about what I do.”
“I don't get it.”
“You remember when Fer explained about the man she met in Manchester. The Lizard King?”
The wise man. He could see what other witches were doing but was powerless to act. “You're like him?”
“I am. Seeing across the aether is much harder. The visions are flickering and confusing, but I have been watching you, off and on. You and your mother and your gran. And Fer.” He leaned a little closer so no one else could hear. “And Bethany, come to that.”
“Bethany?”
“Oh yes. It is harder with her. She is well hidden. Buried deep. But I see glimpses of what she sees. I know you carry a part of her within you.”
Cait nodded. “She mentioned you. Said you'd been a whisper in her mind for years and years. She thought you were a ghost haunting her.”
The old man smiled at that. “She thought I was a ghost? That's pretty funny when you think about it.”
“Actually it's a relief to know you've seen her.”
“It is?”
“Well, you know, people who hear disembodied voices in their heads. It's good to know I'm not completely crazy.”
“I can assure you Bethany is real. A ghost, a memory, a pattern in the mists, who knows? But sometimes I see through her eyes. See that cold pool in those high mountains. Sometimes I see you there, too. But don't worry. I won't tell anyone your secret.”
“Wait, so, you can see back home? You can tell me what's happened to mum and gran and Fer? And Johnny?”
The man shook his head. “Not for some days. The aether is more than usually turbulent at the moment, something I think we can thank Fer for. Seeing across to worlds such as your own is like trying to see through rippling waters. There are broken snatches of sound, disjointed images, but it is hard to make sense of anything. I'm sorry.”
“And what about the witches in Andar. Hellen and the others?”
“Glimpses only. I have spoken to Hellen Meggenwar more than once over the years, but not for some time. The An is between us, of course. And all the undain. Perhaps we are both too old and feeble.” The sparkle in his eye returned, suggesting he thought they were no such thing.
“But how come you're even here? Why hasn't the Witch King destroyed you?”
“The Dragon's Tongue is part of the reason, as Lugg there thought. Caer D'nar is another reason. The stones are mostly ruined, now, but there is a lingering power about the place that would keep out all but the most determined foe. But I rather suspect,” and here the old man sighed, “that the main reason is that Menhroth couldn't be bothered. We're hardly a danger to him. In truth, I think it suits the Holy Court to have a beacon of hope for disaffected younglings like Lugg. Menhroth and Charis and the rest watch to see who stares wistfully into the north dreaming of the Smouldering Fire, and they know who they can and can't trust. Sometimes I think we should put an end to ourselves to rob Menhroth of our use.”
“You shouldn't. You should never do that. You give people hope. You gave Lugg hope.”
The old man nodded. “Yes. But sometimes I wonder if that is a kindness or a cruelty. Perhaps people would be better knowing the truth. I'm afraid it is hopeless.”
“But Ran is here now,” said Cait. “A true dragonrider. That has to count for something. And Lugg, too. He has rider blood in him, so Ran said.”
“Is a dragonrider without a dragon truly a dragonrider?” the man asked.
“Well, no. I suppose not. So the creatures are really gone, then? There are none up in these mountains? I thought maybe they'd still be there and we could … wake them. Or whatever it is you do with dragons.”
She sounded crazy even to her own ears. A few days ago she'd have said dragons only existed in stories and games. Now she was discussing them quite happily, hoping they existed.
The old man was silent for a moment. He seemed to be deciding how best to reply. “I've never seen any, certainly.”
“But you suspect? You know something?”
“No. Not really. Come to Caer D'nar and I will explain what I know. It is little enough. But we are not safe in the wilds. It will be nightfall in a few hours. We can talk properly with the windows shuttered and a fire keeping the cold at bay.”
Lugg and Nox were both stirring now, groaning as they stretched stiff limbs. Lugg, opening his eyes, looked around in sudden alarm.
Cait called over. “It's OK. We're not in danger. This is Phoenix. We got close, but in the end he had to come and find us.”
She could see that Caer D'nar stood in ruins as they approached. A tall spire of stone remained, jutting up as if to compete with the mountain-tops. But there was ruin all around, the stones of walls and buildings scattered and cracked, as if desperate battles had raged there long ago. The sky was darkening as they approached, but she could see, at the top of the tower, a ring of archways or windows from which a yellow light flickered. A beacon in the darkness, a lighthouse in a sea of mountains. Even from this distance, she could tell that this was no magical werelight. Someone had lit a fire.
Phoenix led them around huge boulders that might once have been sections of massive walls, and approached a steep staircase cut into the rock. It was narrow and rose steeply, twisting around and up the rock-face to reach the foot of the tower. The steps were uneven, and many were so worn that Cait had to scramble upward. In many places there were no steps at all, just the bare rock. It seemed a strange way to reach such an impressive and grand tower. Then it dawned on her. This was not how the dragonriders of old had reached Caer D'nar, they'd flown through those high openings in the tower. The staircase had been cut into the rock some time in the five hundred years since.
It was fully dark when they approached the top of the stairs. Phoenix and his men carried sputtering torches, but these were only bright enough to outline each step in wavering shadows. A gulf of darkness gaped on the party's left, and Cait stayed as tight as possible to the rough rock-face on her right, grasping what handholds she could find when the whistling wind threatened to pluck her off the mountainside.
The long climb had taken its toll on her thighs, the burning in her muscles even distracting her from the raw pains inflicted by
the horse. In the darkness, she had no idea how high they'd ascended, but the air was bitterly cold and at one point as she'd toiled upward her ears had popped.
She'd felt the lingering power of the tower's old stones like a hum in the air. Now, touching the massive blocks at its base, the iron magic worked into the stones was clear. There was something about it that reminded her of Ran: that same obsidian impenetrability. There could be no doubt this was the ancient fortress of the dragonriders.
Inside it was in ruins. Huge caverns had been opened in the hillside, leading off from the base of the tower. The carved archways must once have been impressive, like the interior of some great cathedral back home. But more than one of the stone pillars holding up a part of the roof had crashed to the ground, and there were many mounds of rubble.
There were others there, as Phoenix had promised. Nine or ten of them: some standing, most huddling on the ground beneath furs. Old, weary faces. The pinched expressions of those suffering the rigours of some illness.
A whispering passed among them as Cait and the others arrived, and Cait saw they weren't looking at her. They were looking at Ran. They glanced at her but their gaze moved on immediately. What did they see when they saw her? Just a girl. Young, exhausted, in need of a bath. Perhaps Phoenix hadn't told them who she was, why she was there. And she was glad of that, but she couldn't help resenting all the wide-eyed stares that followed Ran as he strode past the prone figures.
In Ran they saw hope.
The halls were cold, and icy draughts blew in from every angle. But in one, as promised, a log fire had been lit. The draughts made it roar with an orange flame. They sat around its heat and ate wedges of dry bread and some sort of stew. It tasted wonderful. Only afterward did Cait wonder whether it contained meat or not. Darkness gathered around them, and the ancient walls seemed to recede into the shadows. Low voices murmured. She wondered how many Angere people, how many generations of people, had trekked north to sit and shiver and be free in these ancient buildings.