Michael felt a sudden revulsion. His stomach lurched and his throat burned. He jumped to his feet and moved away from the Master of the Order of the Spider.
“I do not know you,” Michael said, “but I know that you lie. Whatever your side is, I am not on it.”
Skraetock stood and cast a long, sad look on Michael. “So be it then,” Skraetock said. “I will call for you again, Michael O’Roarke. When the day comes that you see your error, my arms are open to you. Until then, you must be my prisoner. For you will help us. You have no choice but to help us.”
Skraetock moved backward. Michael watched as the old man seemed to fade away—to become one with the shadows. He was gone. The doors of the hall opened. Light came in, accompanied by the boot tramps and calls of soldiers.
Two soldiers pressed their spear tips against Michael’s back. Without a word they took his arms and marched him out of the hall and down a long corridor. He did not protest. He felt shaky; weaker than he had ever felt. He tried to fight the weakness down and regain his bearings—to remember why he was here.
His alarm grew as the soldiers opened a door and led him up a flight of steps. The dungeon was beneath the castle. He was not being taken to Miracle. Urgency burned in his throat. He had to do something, anything, or he was a prisoner, and Miracle was no closer to freedom!
Before he could gather his thoughts, Christopher Ens stepped out of the shadows, into the soldiers’ path, and halted their ascent. His face was flushed. His eyes flashed, not with fire, but with the hardness of diamond.
“Take this man to the dungeon,” Christopher ordered. Michael choked back a cry of relief. He nearly smiled, but when he looked in Christopher’s face, the young man cast such a look of hatred and disdain on him that he lost all desire to smile.
“We have orders to keep him in the tower,” one of the soldiers said.
“Idiot,” Christopher said. “How dare you question me?”
The soldier bit back a retort. “I have my orders from the—from Master Skraetock himself,” he said.
“Do you think I don’t know the wishes of my own master?” Christopher demanded. “I have just come from him.”
He stepped close and wrenched a spear from the hand of an unprepared soldier. “Now get out, all of you,” he said. “I’ll take the man down myself.”
The soldier who had spoken before looked inclined to argue, but a scathing glare from Christopher silenced him. He and his two companions turned and left, their boots echoing down the long flight of stone steps.
Christopher grabbed Michael’s arm and half-dragged him down the stairs without a word. They followed twisting corridors until they reached a nail-studded door that led down a damp, crumbling passageway, illuminated only by the sickly light of a single torch. They followed the passageway to a flight of steep, winding steps, ancient and encrusted with lichen. The stairway led them deep beneath the castle to the dungeon.
The dungeon-keeper was startled by their sudden appearance, but Christopher propelled the man ahead of them without a word of apology. They reached a high oak door, and Christopher stopped.
“Open it,” he ordered.
“This is the girl’s cell,” the dungeon-keeper stuttered. “I have orders…”
“Don’t lie to me, man,” Christopher snapped. “You’ve opened this door to others, despite orders. I am come from the Master himself.” He smiled. “Do as I say.”
The dungeon-keeper swallowed, searching for words to defend himself. Thinking better of it, he turned to obey. The door swung open to the heavy iron key. Christopher shoved Michael forward. As he stumbled inside, his eyes met the welcoming faces of Kris of the Mountains and Stocky. He saw flashing steel and heard Christopher cry out.
Michael rushed in and lifted Miracle in his arms. She buried her face in his shoulder, her bandaged hand rested by his neck. Wondering at her trust, Michael carried her out of the cell. Stocky slammed the door behind them, locking the hapless dungeon-keeper inside. Christopher had fallen to the dungeon floor, seemingly unconscious. Kris and Stocky leapt over him.
They ran together: Kris and Stocky before with their weapons drawn, Michael behind with Miracle in his arms. They mounted the ancient steps with concentrated speed, bursting out of the door at the top. A lone soldier in the corridor yelled before Kris took him down. They kept running, through the corridors, running blindly, trying only to reach the sun before opposition reached them.
The few soldiers in the halls fell quickly beneath the blades of Kris and Stocky, but the commotion did not go without notice. Michael heard shouts and the blowing of a horn. The alarm was sounded. They were discovered.
Kris kicked open a door, and they spilled out into the courtyard. Michael drank in the sight of the mountains and the smell of fresh air, holding Miracle more closely to him. And then the attack. Soldiers rushed at them from every direction. Stocky moved behind Michael as they raced for the outer gates, but by the time they reached the center of the courtyard, they were surrounded. Michael set Miracle on her feet and moved in front of her. He took the sword Kris handed him. They stood together, breathing hard, in the midst of their enemies.
Narald Black-Brow pushed through the ranks of High Police, a huge sword in his hands. His eyes gleamed at the sight of his catch: Stocky, crouched, with a slim sword in each hand; Kris of the Mountains, huge hands gripping an axe; Michael, sword drawn; and Miracle, leaning against Michael’s back, pale and beautiful.
“They are mine,” Black-Brow growled. “They should have been mine from the start.” He pointed to a few soldiers. “Take the girl,” he commanded. The soldiers started forward. Kris and Stocky leaped at them. Blades clashed; the soldiers fell. Stocky returned to his place, a wound running blood in his shoulder. His mouth twitched with pain, but he still clutched his swords tightly. Kris stayed where the soldiers had fallen, tense and ready.
The police charged forward. Michael brought up his sword to meet the attack. Kris and Stocky were nearly overpowered on either side of him. A soldier slipped past the men. He grabbed Miracle’s arm roughly, and she cried out.
“Desist!”
The order came from a corner of the courtyard, where three men in black walked swiftly into the midst of the soldiers.
“Black-Brow, withdraw your men!” Adhemar Skraetock commanded.
“I am the Overlord of the Northern Lands,” Black-Brow began.
“You are an old fool,” said the Nameless One. “Do as the Master says.”
Black-Brow motioned with his hand. His soldiers moved away, leaving the small group intact. The guards stayed in a circle around the little group, spears leveled.
“You will not play your bloody games with my captives,” Skraetock said.
“Your captives tried to escape,” said Black-Brow, spitting out the words.
Christopher Ens smiled. “Yes,” he said. “And they nearly succeeded, thanks to your poor defenses.”
Narald Black-Brow sputtered but did not retort. Master Skraetock crooked his finger to summon several soldiers and strode toward the captives. He stopped in his tracks as a wild scream split the air.
The eyes of every man in the courtyard turned to the high west wall. Over it loomed the cliff where Michael and his companions had spent the night. An enormous spotted mountain cat, eyes glittering and claws gleaming white, crouched atop the wall. The creature screamed again. The sound carried primal fear into the courtyard.
Thunder rumbled in the mountains.
The cat leaped from its place on the wall, landing on the stones of the courtyard. A soldier raised his spear, hand trembling. The cat turned and leapt too quickly for him. The soldier went down under the mountain cat’s claws, screaming for help. The silver-tipped spears of the High Police took flight toward the animal’s silken hide, but the cat only leaped again, and each spear missed its mark.
The thunder grew louder, and then it was no more thunder, but the wild echo of hoofbeats, the power of hoof and hide striking against the gates. The
gates burst open, and the mountain ponies streamed through, neighing, lunging, and shaking their manes. Kris recognized even his little pony in the midst of them. And at the head of them all came a great white wolf.
Behind the ponies came the wolves, a pack of thirty at least, howling and baring their teeth. Wild mountain deer and goats rushed in behind them, sharp-hoofed and sharp-horned. White owls soared in over the walls, and little birds, hundreds of little house-birds, dove into the fray.
Michael caught Miracle up again and ran for the open gates, Kris and Stocky behind them. They reached the gates and passed through. Michael took a last look back as he ran, and he saw that even Adhemar Skraetock was fighting. But it was no wolf or antlered fiend he fought. It was a great man, dressed in skins, who pressed the Master of the Order with laughter and filled the air with a war cry that made the mountains tremble.
They made camp that night in a small cave deep in the mountainside, some ten miles from Ordna. They would have gone further, but Stocky was steadily losing blood from his shoulder, and Kris insisted on stopping to bandage the wound. Miracle helped to tend the wound—with help of the most ordinary kind—until her own strength gave out and she lay down on a bed of dry pine needles. Michael sat near the entrance to the cave, the wound on his face burning.
Long after midnight, Michael sighed and turned his face away from the entrance of the cave. The huge shape of a stranger was sitting in the shadows across from him.
Michael reached for his sword, but the man put out a hand to stop him.
“Do not you recognize me?” the man said, with a smile like a laughing wolf.
Michael was about to reply when he saw the man’s eyes: one blue, one gold.
The white wolf.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“I am Lord of the Wild Things,” the stranger said. “Gwyrion, of the Brethren of the Earth.”
“You led the attack on Ordna—you saved us all today,” Michael said.
“At great cost,” Gwyrion said. He looked down at his hands, which, in the darkness, were faintly striped. “Ah, but it is good to run again. Too long did I sleep.”
For a moment Michael felt again the confusion that had assailed him in Skraetock’s presence—the sense of being deep in something he did not understand. But in Gwyrion’s presence was such a pulsing power and rightness that the confusion abated before it. Michael still had no answers, but anticipation grew in him.
“I came here to seek a mystery,” Michael said. “I did not expect to find you.”
“What mystery?” Gwyrion asked.
“My father—” Michael’s voice caught in his throat. “Many years ago, my father saw something in these mountains. A great fire—a light that swept over the whole earth and did not destroy, but purified all that it touched. It changed him. It was his great hope that what he saw in the mountains might become reality all over the Seventh World. And there was a man, who was not a man—”
“It was not I,” Gwyrion said. In the shadows his eyes gleamed like a wild cat’s.
Michael swallowed his disappointment. “I see.”
“Your father met with the King,” Gwyrion said quietly.
Michael looked up. “With who?”
“With the one for whom I fight,” Gwyrion said. “The one for whom the Earth Brethren now awake.”
“Why do you fight?” Michael asked.
“Because we are at war,” Gwyrion answered.
“I am not,” Michael said.
Gwyrion looked at Michael piercingly. “For one who is not at war, you fight hard against the enemy.”
Skraetock’s words came back to memory: You are in danger of falling in with the wrong side. Michael looked down suddenly. “I do not fight for any man’s cause,” he said. “I fight for love. For love of my family, for love of…” His voice trailed away.
“Love is the King’s cause,” Gwyrion said. “Fight for it, fight for truth, and you fight also for the King. As Gwyrion of the Wild Things fights for him. As she fights for him.”
Michael did not have to ask who he meant. He looked into the shadows of the cave where Miracle still slept. She was weak and faint, but had not breathed a word of complaint. Nevertheless, Michael could see traces of fear and suffering in her eyes. She was no soldier, whatever Gwyrion might say about wars.
“She can’t stay here,” Michael said. “They will come after her again.”
“So you will take her home?” Gwyrion asked. He did not wait for answer. “And I will also go with you.”
Michael was silent for a few minutes. He bowed his head and said, “My father’s belief in… the King… was the strongest thing about him. But he died, and no great power came to rescue him.”
He looked down at the floor of the cave. “I came here to seek refuge for my family. And now I go home, bearing more trouble for them. Bearing this war of yours.”
“The whole world is troubled,” Gwyrion said. “Meet evil head on, fight on the right side, and you will overcome it. Your father saw the truth. The Burning Light will come and purify the world again. It has already begun.”
Michael looked up at Gwyrion again. A sudden image of home came to mind. He saw the thatched cottage, the stone hearth, the faces of those he loved—his sister and cousins, Grandmother, the children.
“I must go home,” he said.
“Yes,” repeated Gwyrion. “For that is your place. And I will also go with you.”
* * *
Chapter 8
Father-Song
The air in the vineyard smelled of salt and mud. The one-room hut, made of mud and thatched with twigs, was round and damp. Still, it was shelter. It kept the wind out, though the melting snow trickled through the roof. An iron stove in the center, stuffed with dry grape vines and any other fuel Peter could find, kept the hut warm.
Marja had carried a load of hay on her back all the way from the wagon, which they had quitted in the middle of the night while the horses rested, and this she fashioned into a bed for the sick man.
Marja started a fire early each morning while Peter left the vineyard in search of food. Nicolas wandered listlessly—through the hut, until Marja lost patience with him and ordered him out, and then through the long brown rows of grape vines. When he returned, he said very little. Sometimes he ate the food that Marja thrust at him. Other times he sat against the wall and stared up at the twiggy ceiling and the light that slipped in through its cracks. Only rarely did he even look at the sick man. The man was kept clean and fed; Nicolas assumed that Marja was taking care of him.
Marja left the hut late on the night of the third day. The air was cold. She wrapped her red coat tightly around herself and walked up the slope of the ground. Clouds wreathed the moon, but it still shone brightly enough to show the way.
Nicolas stood at the top of the hill, the north wind blowing in his face, looking over the vineyard with his back to the hut.
They stood together in a long silence while the wind whistled through the grape rows.
“You have to do something,” Marja said at last. “You’ll go crazy if you stay idle.”
“I’m homesick,” Nicolas said, swallowing.
“You can’t go home now. You know that.”
“I miss Bear.”
“Stop making excuses!” Marja stepped in front of Nicolas. He did not look at her face.
“Why won’t you tend him?” Marja said. “You brought him here; now you abandon him.”
“He’s taken care of,” Nicolas said.
“He needs you.”
“He doesn’t!” Nicolas turned away. “He needs real care. We’ll take him into town. Find a doctor.”
“He’s dying, Nicolas. No doctor can change that.”
“Well, I can’t change it!”
“Go talk to him.”
“He’s delirious.”
Marja’s voice lowered with urgency. “He’s your father.”
Nicolas snapped his head around and looked into Marja’s eyes so sud
denly that she caught her breath.
“He’s not!” Nicolas shouted. “He’s no father at all.”
“Then why won’t you go to him?” Marja asked.
Nicolas’s voice was half-choked. “He left me,” he said. “I was four years old. Not even four years old. He left me, and he left my mother, and she died, and I needed him! And he wasn’t there.”
“Do you remember him?” Marja asked gently.
“I’ve always remembered his face,” Nicolas said.
“And the man in the hut?”
Nicolas nodded.
“You look like him,” Marja said.
“I hate him,” Nicolas whispered. “I don’t even know why.”
“I do,” Marja said. “You hate him because you won’t go into that hut and love him. Love is a choice, Nicolas Fisher. Love is the decision to be there when you’re needed. You haven’t even looked at him since we got here.”
“He wasn’t there when I needed him,” Nicolas said.
“Do you want to be like him?” Marja asked.
Nicolas looked down. “No.”
Marja reached out and touched Nicolas’s arm. She smiled and stepped back. “I’ll see you in the morning,” she said.
* * *
“There’s a good stand of reina trees a few miles from here,” Peter said, his teeth clenching his pipe as he talked. “I’ll strip enough bark to keep us eating for a few days.”
“Good,” Marja said. “If you can bring me another rabbit, do. We’ll all start to look like reina bark by the end of the winter if that’s all we eat.”
“Brown and stringy?” Peter asked with a grin.
Marja pretended to smack his head. “Yes. Now get going.”
The door of the hut swung open just as Peter stood, and Nicolas entered. He did not look at either of his companions. His eyes were on the hay cot across the room.
Marja moved close to Peter as they watched Nicolas kneel by the bed. The sick man’s eyes were open. They heard his voice, weak and raspy. “Water?” Nicolas’s voice was quiet, but they heard him, too. “Here,” he said. “It’s here. I’m here.” He took the cup that rested by the cot and lifted it to the old man’s lips.
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