She was urging the laggards on, running back and forth and chivvying them along, but it made little difference to the overall speed of the strung-out column of trudging fisher-folk, who were nearly all much more at home on a boat’s deck than land.
Ferin closed up to where Karrilke was striding along between her son Tolther and an older yellow-bearded man who wore a sleeveless leather jerkin with studded wrist bracers, displaying sinewy, muscled arms. He had a double-bladed axe slung across the heavy pack on his back, and a long knife thrust through his belt.
“Captain,” said Ferin, “this won’t work. The wood-weirds can run as fast as a cantering horse, and we have too short a start. They’ll catch us in the open.”
“I know,” said Karrilke heavily. “I’d planned to get to where the road turns south; there’s an old watchtower, built over the estuary there for defense against the Dead. It is large enough to shelter us all and is high and strong. We could make a good stand there, against any odds. But as you say, we go too slowly . . .”
Ferin looked ahead. She could see where the road began to turn behind the hill, but neither tower nor estuary. They had to be at least a league away, and the wood-weirds would catch them long before that. Even the shamans and witches would, for that matter. They might be horse nomads, but even the horse nomads could run when they needed to, much faster and for longer than these fisher-folk.
“I am the one they pursue,” said Ferin. “If I turn aside, they will follow me.”
Karrilke shook her head.
“No. You said your message is important, and it must truly be so for such a pursuit. Besides, you are our guest. It would be as if we gave you to them.”
It was Ferin’s turn to shake her head.
“I do not plan to be easily caught.”
She pointed across and up toward the northwestern hill of grey shale that rose to a razorback ridge, the ridge continuing in a twisting line as far as Ferin could see.
“There is a path along the ridge, up there, I think?”
“Yes,” said the axe-bearer next to Karrilke. “A very dangerous path. In some places the ridge is like a knife edge, and you can only pass at a crawl, gripping either side with hands and feet.”
“My husband, Swinther,” said Karrilke. She looked at him with a wry smile. “Who I trust has not gone that way since he was a boy, and was dared to take it, as they will.”
“If I go that way, I am sure they will follow,” said Ferin. “Wood-weirds do not go well along narrow ways, or on uncertain ground. There is much loose shale I can see from here, and even a wood-weird cannot survive a great fall.”
Karrilke hesitated.
“That would give us time to reach the tower . . .”
“You’ll need a guide,” said Swinther. He seemed to accept the idea immediately. “It looks straight enough from down here, but there are several false ridges, and if the cloud comes down you’ll be lost.”
“I don’t know . . .” murmured Karrilke.
“The lass is right,” said Swinther to his wife. He gestured at the long, straggling line. “They’ll speed up when the first few at the rear are slain, but it won’t make a difference. Not if these things are as fast as you say, Ferin. I’ll show you the way.”
“No, Pa,” interrupted Tolther. “Let me go!”
“Nay, lad,” said Swinther, tousling his hair. “You’ve not been past the first crest, have you?”
“I’ve been halfway along,” said Tolther. “Let me do it!”
“No,” said Swinther and Karrilke together. There was a moment of silence, then Karrilke added, “I’ll need your help, at the tower.”
Tolther looked away, face set in a scowl. Ferin restrained herself from shaking her head. The boy still didn’t realize this was a serious, life-or-death matter.
“We’ll need shields,” said Ferin. “The sorcerers won’t have bows, but their keepers will. And at least one of them has a good eye.”
“Best we have someone to shoot back as well,” said Swinther. He caught Ferin’s look of bridling indignation and added, “Besides yourself, I mean. Where’s Young Laska?”
“Up ahead,” said Karrilke. She filled her lungs and bawled out in her seagoing voice, honed to be heard over the fiercest gale, “Ahoy! Young Laska! You’re wanted!”
Up ahead, a middle-aged woman walking alongside a much older man looked behind, raised her hand, and came loping back. Her skin, hair, and clothes were so much all the same deep shade of brown she had the look overall of a deeply weathered old chestnut tree. Of greater interest to Ferin was the longbow on her back and a quiver of goosefeather-fletched arrows considerably longer than the ones the tribespeople used.
“Young Laska was with the Borderers for years, till she came home to make Old Laska’s dying comfortable—that’s her pa,” said Karrilke. “Only he’s taking a long time about it. She hunts still, and I believe is as good an archer as anyone could wish.”
“As for shields, we don’t have any as such,” said Swinther. He looked back along the line of stragglers, his eyes narrowing against the glare of the morning sun. “But there might be . . . I’ll be back. Keep walking on, I’ll catch you up again before we need to strike toward the ridge.”
He ran back the way they had come, moving easily, unlike most of his neighbors a man accustomed to a vigorous day outdoors, over hill and dale, cutting down trees and dragging heavy timber.
Young Laska arrived from the front at much the same time as Astilaran came hurrying up from farther back. The healer scowled at Ferin, who was carrying her pack again, made heavier by the fur she had packed away, as the day was now too warm for such a coat.
“I told you to rest as much as possible,” he said, talking as he matched his pace to hers. “Your foot is not better, my spell is merely holding back the pain and assisting your body to heal itself. Which it cannot do if you test yourself beyond enduring.”
“I cannot rest,” said Ferin. “The pursuit will soon begin in earnest, and I must lead the wood-weirds away from your people. After all, I was the one who brought them here.”
“What? What’s this?” asked Astilaran.
“I will take the ridge path, along the shale,” said Ferin, pointing. “They will follow me. You others will go on to take refuge in the tower.”
“You will break the spell!” protested Astilaran. “Climbing the shale . . . it is bound to stress the wound.”
“Ferin says the wood-weirds can run as fast as horses,” said Karrilke. She lifted her eyes to the rear of the slow column of villagers.
“Hmm,” said Astilaran. He looked back too, scratched his head and grimaced, his ever-present frown deepening even more. “We had best sort out some kind of rear guard. Megril alone would be overborne in moments. I recall a few spells that may be of use, I could probably deal with one or two of these creatures—”
“There are twelve wood-weirds,” said Ferin. “At least. Perhaps more. With the sorcerers who command them, and the keepers who watch the sorcerers. Your only chance is if they follow me, rather than you. On the shale, the wood-weirds may fall, the sorcerers too for that matter—”
“They may fall!” snorted Astilaran. “You certainly will when my spell fails and your foot gives way again. I do not like this.”
“It is a reasonable plan,” said Young Laska. She spoke with calm certainty. “The only one possible, given the circumstances. You called me back, Karrilke . . . is it to suggest I go with our visitor?”
“If you would,” said Karrilke. “Ferin, this is Young Laska.”
Ferin inclined her head, and received a similar movement in return.
“How far can you shoot that great bow?” asked Ferin.
“Up there, in the wind?” asked Young Laska. “Perhaps three hundred paces with any certainty of hitting what I aim at.”
“Better than I could manage with my bow, and the Yrus with theirs,” said Ferin. She was not sure Young Laska could be believed, for three hundred paces was more than half as much
again as far as she could shoot accurately with her own bow. But she had heard the southern longbows could send a shaft a great distance. Though she still thought it was too big and cumbersome for general use. You could never shoot such a bow from a horse, or up a tree, or from hiding.
“The wood-weirds cannot be harmed with normal arrows, of course, and the sorcerers may be warded with spells or charms. But if you can shoot even some of them, or their keepers . . . it will help.”
“I have five Charter-spelled arrows ready, imbued with marks to cut, unravel, and flense,” said Young Laska. As she spoke she lifted her head, her broad-brimmed hat tilting back to show that she too bore the Charter mark on her forehead. “And I have some small store of knowledge when it comes to the more combative marks, as do all Borderers. Some should work against these wood-weirds, and I am happy to put all to the test.”
“Better and better,” said Ferin. She looked up at the sun, noting how much time had passed since Tolther had said the raider would make landfall. She thought they must be close to that point now, and the wood-weirds would soon be loping over the Charter Stone hill and coming down toward them. “But we must get up toward that ridge, and soon.”
“Swinther’s on his way back,” said Karrilke. “Path to the ridge starts over there—you see the gap between those first two great shards where they break through the earth?”
Ferin nodded. She could see the beginnings of a path, a line of bare earth bordered initially by grass and then by the loose shale, fallen from the great folds of rock that thrust up out of the ground, the first buttresses of stone for the larger hill behind.
Without noticing it, they had begun to walk more slowly as they talked, so the stragglers at the rear of the fisher-folk column had gained ground, and were now only two or three hundred paces behind. Swinther came running back, carrying two round metal shields, which, as he got closer, Ferin saw were actually the heavy lids from two large cast iron pots.
“Thought Gebbler would try to bring his pots,” he said, handing one lid over to Ferin and the other to Young Laska. It was heavy iron, with a large handle, and would serve quite well as a shield for the time being, though she would not want to be carrying it about all the time. “This way. I’ll lead. You want to take the rear, Young Laska?”
“Aye,” answered the former Borderer, before Ferin could protest. The older woman looked at her and something not quite a smile twitched across her mouth. “You’ll have plenty of targets yourself, young mistress, I’m sure. I’ll not be hogging them all.”
“Good fortune,” said Karrilke. She briefly touched hands with Ferin and Young Laska and then gave her husband a businesslike kiss on his cheek.
“You also,” said Ferin awkwardly.
Before she could say anything else, a screeching cry echoed behind them from the Charter Stone hill, like a hawk’s that had mistimed its swoop on a juicy pigeon and was complaining of it, but far louder.
“Already at the stone!” exclaimed Karrilke. Her hand fell upon her knife. “We are too late!”
“No, no,” said Astilaran hurriedly. “That is a warning spell I set, to be triggered at the first touch of Free Magic upon the jetty, the warning to be repeated by the Charter Stone. They have landed. But we must hurry, to be sure! I hope we may meet again!”
With those parting words, he ran back to the rear of the column, shouting to the laggards.
“The enemy has landed! You must go faster, or else be slain upon the road!”
Chapter Sixteen
AN UNLOOKED-FOR RETURN
The Clayr’s Glacier, Old Kingdom
The clouds came rolling down as the paperwing flew the last few leagues up the Ratterlin toward the Clayr’s Glacier, a shining blue-white monolith of ice nestled between the dark grey rocky peaks of Starmount and Sunfall, the glacier’s attendant mountains. It grew colder, even within the magically warmed cockpit, and then somewhat miserable as it began to rain. Even though the heavy raindrops were mostly repelled by an almost invisible shield of Charter Magic, they broke into a mist which soon saturated both Lirael and Nick.
“I’m sorry I didn’t get you better clothes,” said Lirael rather worriedly over her shoulder. She had forgotten her irritation from his comments about librarians, and now was only concerned for his well-being. “You must be uncomfortable.”
“It’s nothing,” said Nick, though he was shivering. In normal circumstances he thought he’d be fine and just shrug this off, but in his current weakened state he did feel very cold and ill, and highly uncomfortable. He was basically naked under the borrowed cloak, which would keep billowing open every time he shifted to try and find a better position.
“It’s not far now,” said Lirael. She peered ahead, though she could see little through the rain. “Fortunately the paperwing is very familiar with the way, or I wouldn’t dare go into this cloud and rain so close to the mountains.”
“We’re going straight into that?” asked Nick, peering over her shoulder toward the vast cloud-wreathed glacier and the mountains either side. “Where do we land?”
“There’s a terraced landing field carved out of the side of Starmount, about two-thirds of the way up,” said Lirael. “I’m sure the Clayr will have Seen us arriving, so we should be able to land and slide straight into the hangar, and get warm immediately.”
“We’re landing on a terrace two-thirds of the way up one of those mountains?” asked Nick. “They must be at least ten thousand feet high!”
“Feet?” asked Lirael. “Oh, your Ancelstierran measure, much the same as our pace. They’re not that tall. Starmount is the higher of the two, about eight thousand paces compared to Sunfall’s seven and a half. There are higher mountains in the Kingdom.”
“Those two are high enough,” said Nick, with feeling. He was suddenly glad to be in a magical aircraft, for a Beskwith or a Humbert Twelve would crash here for certain, if anyone was fool enough to try to land on the side of a mountain over a glacier, under thick cloud. While it was raining no less, or as it was now, beginning to snow. It would be crazy at any time, at least back in Ancelstierre.
Nick tried to think about something else.
“What happens when we get there?”
“Ah, I’m not entirely sure,” said Lirael, who had been thinking about this herself. “But first of all a hot bath, clean clothes, dinner . . .”
“I meant beyond the immediate necessities,” said Nick. “Though all of those will be very welcome.”
“The Infirmarian will need to look at your wounds and see how you are, in general,” said Lirael. “And . . . I think probably the Librarian and some others should investigate the Free Magic that is a result of you . . . of you having had the shard of Orannis in your body.”
Nick was silent for a moment. “Sam wrote to me about that, a little, and tried to explain your Charter Magic as opposed to Free Magic. I’m not sure I entirely understood. He said I somehow have both within me . . . and I need to understand. I need to know what I have become!”
“The Clayr will help you do that,” said Lirael.
“Yes,” said Nick. He had forgotten his momentary irritation as well. “I . . . um . . . want to thank you again. For coming to get me.”
“I wanted to,” said Lirael, almost without thinking, and blushed at this honesty.
“Good,” said Nick. “I’m . . . I’m happy you did. That it was you.”
Both were suddenly very aware of their closeness in the cockpit. For a few seconds, they were suspended together somewhere else, a kind of shared space and time, suddenly gone as the paperwing tilted and began to climb, bursting through the fall of wet snow and into whiter, less heavy cloud that was still sufficiently dense they could see no farther than the nose of the craft.
“Oh!” exclaimed Lirael. “We’re climbing up to the landing ledge. I had better whistle the wind around to the south, make it easier for our friend.”
She reached out of the cockpit and patted the side of the fuselage fondly, much as she used
to do to the Dog. The paperwing wiggled the ends of its wings and continued to steeply climb as Lirael began to whistle, golden Charter marks blowing out of her pursed lips, joining a cloud of frosted breath.
The wind shifted in answer to Lirael’s whistled spell, Nick marveling that it did so. He could see the cloud moving, shredding apart as the wind changed, the slushy snow going with it, so that all of a sudden there was a gap between wisps and he caught a glimpse of a flat white area to their left and now somewhat below them, with one side the patchy grey rock and ice of Starmount continuing ever upward and the other side a frightening absence, a drop down to the blinding blue-white glacier far, far below.
Nick shut his eyes and would have crossed his fingers, but he somehow thought the paperwing might be able to tell if he did that, and become offended. So he had to be content with fixing his eyes very closed, leaning back in his hammock chair, and hoping that Lirael’s extreme confidence in their magical craft was entirely justified.
A few minutes later, when he had felt no sudden bump, or for that matter, a half-expected smashing impact with the mountainside, Nick opened his eyes again. He blinked several times, for he couldn’t believe they had actually landed. It had happened so gently he hadn’t even felt it as any different from the tiny bumps and adjustments of their travel in the air.
The paperwing was in the middle of that flat ledge, in front of a vast gate in the mountainside. By Nick’s estimate it was at least seventy feet across and twenty-five feet high. The gate was made of some dark wood, perhaps ebony, and was studded all over with greeny-bronze bolts arranged in the shape of stars, dozens of star patterns in different sizes.
“The Starmount Gate,” said Lirael, a note of puzzlement in her voice. “I’d have thought it would be open, and someone here to meet us; they always See visitors at least a few hours ahead of time, if not days before. Stay here, it will remain warm . . . or at least warmer . . . in the cockpit.”
She climbed out, her boot heels crunching through the thin layer of icy snow on the landing terrace. Nick noticed there was a lot less snow there than there should be, as there were high drifts to either side. It was as if the terrace had been freshly swept and raked, though there was no sign of anyone doing such work. He also noted that Lirael took up her sword and buckled it on, and she hadn’t taken off the bell bandolier at any stage. So even here, where he would have supposed it must be safe, she took no chances. He wished he had a sword himself, or at least a knife.