To Green Angel Tower, Volume 2

  “Simon! Get up!”

  He dimly recognized Miriamele’s voice, heard its shrill terror. His head lolled. There was a form approaching him, a pale smear in his blurry sight. For an appalling moment he thought it might be the great bull, but his vision cleared. Maefwaru was stalking toward him, the long knife held up so that it glinted in the bonfire’s wavering light.

  “The Red Hand wants your blood,” the Fire Dancer chieftain said. His eyes were completely mad. “You will help to build the Third House.”

  Simon struggled to free himself from the tangling grasses and clamber up onto his knees. Miriamele had thrown off her false bonds, and now flung herself toward Maefwaru. One of the Norns caught at her arm and tugged her to his black-cloaked breast, pulling her as close as a lover would—but to Simon’s surprise, the immortal did no more than hold her helpless; the Norn’s black eyes were intent on Maefwaru, who had continued toward Simon without sparing an instant’s attention to the girl.

  Everything seemed to pause; even the fire seemed to slow in its fluttering. The Red Hand, the Norns, Maefwaru’s cowering followers, all stood or lay still, as if waiting. The blocky Fire Dancer chieftain raised his knife higher.

  Simon tugged furiously at his restraints, straining until he thought he could feel his muscles pulling free from his bones. Miriamele had cut through part of the rope.

  If only ... if only...

  The rope snapped. Simon’s arms flew outward, and the coil slithered down his arm and dropped to the ground. Blood dribbled down his wrists and hands where the shard had cut him, the ropes had scored him.

  “Come, then,” he gasped, and lifted his hands before him. “Come and get me.”

  Maefwaru laughed. Beads of sweat stood out on his brow and bald scalp. The thick muscles of his neck jumped as he pulled another knife from inside his robe. For a moment Simon thought the Fire Dancer was going to throw it to him, to make it a fair fight, but Maefwaru had no such intentions. A blade in each hand, he took another step toward Simon. He stumbled, caught himself, then strode forward another pace.

  A moment later Maefwaru straightened up, bringing his hands to his neck so suddenly that he gashed himself with his own knife. His furious joy turned to puzzlement, then his legs folded beneath him and he toppled forward into the undergrowth.

  Before Simon could make sense of what was happening, a shadowy form flew past him and struck the Norn who prisoned Miriamele, knocking the white-skinned thing to the ground. The princess tumbled free.

  “Simon!” someone shouted. “Take the knife!”

  Dazed, Simon saw the long blade that still gleamed in Maefwaru’s fist. He dropped to a knee—the night air was suddenly full of strange noises, growls and shouts and a strange rumbling hum—and tugged it loose from the Fire Dancer’s death-grip, then stood up.

  Even as his two fellows hurried to his aid, the Norn who had held Miriamele was rolling on the ground with a gray, snarling something. The princess had crawled away; now, as she saw Simon, she scrambled to her feet and ran toward him, tripping on clinging vines and leaf-hidden stones.

  “Here, come here!” someone shouted from the edge of the hilltop. “This is the way!”

  As Miriamele reached him, Simon grabbed her hand and ran toward the voice. A pair of Fire Dancers leaped up to stop them, but Simon slashed one with Maefwaru’s knife, opening a red wound through the white robe; Miriamele escaped the other, scratching at the man’s panicky face as she pulled free of his grasp. The rumbling roar of the thing atop the bull—it was speaking, Simon realized, but now he could no longer understand it—grew until Simon’s head hammered.

  “Over here!” A small figure had emerged from the trees at the edge of the hilltop. The roiling bonfire painted the little man in flame-colored light.

  “Binabik!”

  “Run to me,” the troll cried. “With swiftness, now!”

  Simon could not help taking a look back. By the sacrificial stone, the great bull snorted and pawed at the ground, tearing great furrows in the damp earth. Ineluki’s servitor was glowing, red light leaking through the black robes, but it made no move to pursue Simon and Miriamele, as though reluctant to leave the circle of blood-drenched ground. One of the Norns lay with its neck ragged and red; another was sprawled nearby, a victim of one of the troll’s darts. The third black-robed figure was struggling with whatever had torn out its fellow’s throat. But the Fire Dancers were finally gathering their wits, and as Simon watched, half a dozen of Maefwaru’s followers turned to follow the escaping prisoners. An arrow flew past Simon’s ear and vanished into the trees.

  “Down here,” Binabik said, hopping nimbly ahead of them down the hill. He gestured for Simon and Miriamele to move past him, then stopped and raised his hands to his mouth. “Qantaqa!” he shouted. “Qantaqa sosa!”

  As they plunged down the hillside into the trees, the confusing roar grew slightly less behind them. Before they had taken a score of steps, two shapes loomed before them in the mist—two horses.

  “They are tied with looseness,” the troll called down to them. “Climb and ride!”

  “Here, Binabik, ride with me,” Simon panted.

  “There is no need,” he replied. Simon looked up to see a large gray shape appear on the foggy rise just above Binabik. “Brave Qantaqa!” Binabik grabbed the wolf’s hackles and pulled himself up onto her back.

  The noise of pursuit was rising again. Simon fumbled with the reins, pulling them free at last. Beside him, Miriamele dragged herself up by her saddle horn. Simon struggled onto his horse’s back—it was Homefinder! After all the other mad things that had happened, Simon was so astonished to be reunited with his horse that he simply stopped thinking. Qantaqa leaped past with Binabik on her back, loping rapidly down the hillside. Simon clutched Homefinder’s neck and dug in his heels, following the wolf’s bobbing tail through the clutching branches, down into darker shadows.

  The night had become a sort of waking dream, a blur of twisted trees and damp murk; when Binabik finally stopped, Simon was not sure how long they had been traveling. They were still on the hill slope, but in deep trees, cut off from even a sight of the cloudy sky. The darkness had become so thick that they had been moving at a walk for some time, Simon and Miriamele straining to see Qantaqa’s gray form though the wolf was only cubits ahead of them.

  “Here,” Binabik said quietly. “Here is shelter.”

  Simon dismounted and followed the sound of his voice, leading Homefinder by the reins.

  “Be keeping your head low,” the troll said. There was an echo behind his words.

  The damp, spongy ground gave way to something drier and more firmly packed. The air was musty.

  “Now, stop where you are standing.” Binabik fell silent but for some rustling noises. Long moments passed. Simon stood and listened to his own heavy breathing. His heart was still pounding, his skin still damp with cold sweat. Could they really be safe? And Binabik! Where had he come from? How had he arrived, so improbably, so fortunately?

  There was a hiss and a flicker, then a blossom of flame rose at the end of a torch clutched in the troll’s small hand. The light revealed a long, low cavern, its farthest end out of sight around a bend in the rock.

  “Deeper in we are going,” he said. “But it would not be safe for traveling in here with no light.”

  “What is this place?” Miriamele asked. The sight of her bloodied legs and pale, frightened face made Simon’s heart cinch in pain.

  “A cave, only.” Binabik smiled, a welcome and familiar baring of yellow teeth. “Trust it for a troll to be finding a cave.” He turned and gestured for them to follow. “Soon you can rest.”

  The horses balked at first, but after a few moments’ soothing they allowed themselves to be led on. The cave was strewn with dry branches and leaves. Here and there the bones of small animals winked up from the litter on the floor. Within a few hundred paces they had reached the innermost end, a grotto that was a little loftier and a great deal wider than the
outer tunnel. At one end a sheet of water ran down a flat stone and drizzled into a small pool; Simon tethered Miriamele’s steed and Homefinder to a stone beside it.

  “Here we will make our home for the evening,” said Binabik. “The wood I have left here is dry, and the smoke it is making will not be great.” He pointed up to a dark crevice in the roof. “I was making a fire here last night. The smoke is carried up there, so breathing is possible.”

  Simon sank down onto the floor. The dry brush crackled beneath him. “What about the Norns and the others?” At this moment he didn’t really much care. If they wanted him, they could come and get him. Every inch of his body seemed to throb painfully.

  “I am doubting they will find this place, but I am doubting even more they will be searching long.” The troll began piling wood atop the ashes in the circle of stones he had made the night before. “The Norns were at some great task, and seemed to need you only for your blood. I am thinking that there will be blood enough among those remaining mortals for the task to be completed.”

  “What did they want, Binabik?” Miriamele’s eyes were fever-bright. “What were they saying about the Third House? And what was that ... that thing?”

  “That fearsome thing was one of the Red Hand,” Binabik said, his matter-of-fact tone betrayed by the worried look on his face. “I have never seen with my eyes anything like it, although Simon was telling me stories.” He shook his head, then took his flint to put a spark to the wood. “I do not know what its purpose was, although it seems clear to me that it was doing the Storm King’s bidding. I will think on that more.” As the fire caught, he lifted his pack and began to search in it. “Now, let me be cleaning those cut places you both have.”

  Simon sat quietly as the troll dabbed at Miriamele’s various wounds with a damp rag and rubbed something from a small pot on each. By the time it was his turn, Simon felt his eyes drooping. He yawned.

  “But how did you get here, Binabik?” He winced as the little man probed a painful spot. “What ... what... ?”

  The troll laughed. “There will be time enough for all telling soon. First, though, food and sleeping are needed.” He eyed them both. “Perhaps first sleeping, then food?” He rose to his feet and dusted his hands off on his wide breeches. “There is something you will be pleased to see.” He pointed to something lying in the darkness near where Homefinder and Miriamele’s mount stood drinking from the pool.

  “What?” Simon stared. “Our saddlebags!”

  “Yes, and with your sleeping-beds still upon them. A luckiness it was for me that the Fire Dancers had not removed them. I left them here when I followed you up the hill. It was a risk, but I did not know what might be in them that would be bad for losing.” He laughed. “Neither did I wish to make you ride laden horses in the dark.”

  Simon was already dragging loose his bedroll and examining the saddlebags. “My sword!” he said, delighted. Then his face fell. “I had to break Jiriki’s mirror, Binabik.”

  The little man nodded. “That I was seeing. But I doubt I could have helped your escaping if you had not freed your hands. A sad but clever sacrifice, friend Simon.”

  “And my White Arrow,” he mused. “I left that back at Sesuad‘ra.” He tossed Miriamele her bedroll, then found a relatively smooth place to unroll his own. “I have not taken very good care of my gifts....”

  Binabik niled a tiny smile. “You are having too much worry. Sleep for a while now. I will wake you later with something warm to eat.” He returned to the task of building the fire. The torchlight played on his round face.

  Simon looked at Miriamele, who had already curled up and closed her eyes. She did not seem too badly hurt, although she was clearly as exhausted as he. So they had survived, somehow, after all. He had not failed his pledge.

  He sat up suddenly. “The horses! I have to unsaddle them!”

  “I will be doing all,” Binabik assured him. “It is time for your resting.”

  Simon lay back on the bedroll and watched the shadows playing along the cavern roof. Within moments he was asleep.

  10

  A Wound in the World

  Simon awakened to the delicate patter of falling water.

  He had been dreaming about being caught in a ring of fire, flames that seemed to grow closer and closer. Somewhere outside the fiery circle, Rachel the Dragon had been calling him to come and do his chores. He had tried to tell her that he was trapped, but smoke and ashes had filled his mouth.

  The water sounded as lovely as morningsong in the Hayholt chapel. Simon crawled across the rustling cavern floor and dipped his hands in the pool, then stared at his palms for a moment, unable to tell by the light of the low fire whether the water looked safe. He smelled it and touched it briefly with his tongue, then drank. It was sweet and cold. If it was poisonous, then he was willing to die that way.

  Mooncalf. The horses drank from it, and Binabik used it to wash our cuts.

  Besides, even poisoning would be preferable to the doom that had almost been theirs ... last night?

  The cold water made the wounds on his wrists and hands sting. All his muscles ached, and his joints were stiff and sore. Still, he did not feel quite as dreadful as he might have expected to. Perhaps he had been asleep longer than a few hours—it was impossible to tell what time of day it might be. Simon looked around the cavern, searching for clues. How long had he slept? The horses still stood quietly nearby. On the far side of the campfire he could see Miriamele’s golden hair peeping out from beneath her cloak.

  “Ah, Simon-friend!”

  He turned. Binabik was trotting up the tunnel toward the central chamber, his hands cupped before him. “Greetings,” said Simon. “And good morning—if it is morning.”

  The troll smiled. “It is indeed that time, although the middle-day will be soon arriving. I have just been out in the cold and misted woods, stalking a most elusive game.” He held up his hands. “Mushrooms.” He walked to the fire and spilled his treasures out on a flat stone, then began sorting through them. “Gray-cap, here. And this is being a rabbit-nose-and tasting far better than any true rabbit’s nose, I am thinking, as well as having much less messiness to prepare.” He chortled. “I will cook these and we will break our fast with great enjoyment.”

  Simon grinned. “It’s good to see you, Binabik. Even if you hadn’t rescued us, it would be very good to see you.”

  The troll cocked an eyebrow. “You both did much to make your own rescuing, Simon—and that is a fortunate thing, since you seem to be flinging yourself constantly into odd troubles. You said once that your parents were being common folk. It is my thought that at least one of them was not a person at all, but a moth.” He smiled wryly and gestured toward the fire. “You are always heading toward the nearest burning flame.”

  “It does seem that way.” Simon found himself a seat on an outcropping of stone, shifting gingerly to find the least painful position. “So now what do we do? How did you find us?”

  “As to what thing we should be doing,” Binabik wrinkled his brow in concentration as he cut up mushrooms with his knife, “ ‘eat’ is being my suggestion. I decided that it would be more kindness to let you sleep than to wake you. You must now be feeling great hungriness.”

  “Great hungriness,” Simon affirmed.

  “As to the other question, I think I will be waiting until Miriamele is also awake. Much as I enjoy talking, I do not want to be telling all my stories twice.”

  “If you wanted me awake,” Miriamele said crossly from her bedroll, “then talking so loud is just the way to go about it.”

  Binabik was unperturbed. “We have made a favor for you, then, for I will soon have food for you both. There is clean water here for washing, and if you wish to go outside, I have looked around with care and there does not seem anyone about.”

  “Oh,” Miriamele groaned. “I hurt.” She dragged herself off her bedroll, wrapped her cloak about her, then staggered out of the cavern.

  “She isn’t
very cheerful in the mornings,” Simon offered with some satisfaction. “Not used to getting up early, I suppose.” He had never liked getting out of bed much either, but a scullion was given little say over how early he would rise or when he would work, and Rachel had always made it quite clear that sloth was the greatest of all sins.

  “Who would be having much cheer after what you went through last night?” said Binabik, frowning. He tossed the mushroom bits into a pot of water, added some powdery substance from a pouch, then set the pot on the outermost edge of the coals. “I am surprised that the things you have been seeing in this year gone past have not made you mad, Simon, or at least trembling and fearful always.”

  Simon thought about this for a moment. “I do get frightened sometimes. Sometimes it all seems so big—the Storm King, and the war with Elias. But all I can do is what is in front of me.” He shrugged. “I’ll never understand it all. And I can only die once.”

  Binabik looked at him shrewdly. “You have been talking to Camaris, my knightly friend. That sounds with great similarity to his Canon of Knighthood—although the words have true Simon-like humbleness.” He peered into his pot and agitated the contents with a stick. “Just a few things to add, then I will be leaving it to itself for a time.” He tossed in a few strips of dried meat, chopped a small and rather lopsided onion into pieces and added those as well, then gave the mixture another stir.

  When he had finished this chore, the troll turned and pulled his hide bag close to him, rummaging through it with an air of great concentration. “There is something in here I thought might give you interest ...” he said absently. After a few moments, he pulled a long parcel wrapped in leaves out of the sack. “Ah. Here.”

  Simon took it, knowing it by the feel even before it was unwrapped. “The White Arrow!” he breathed. “Oh, Binabik, thank you! I wa sure I had lost it.”

  “You did lose it,” said tne troll dryly. “But since I was coming for visiting you in any case, it seemed that I might as well be carrying it along.”