The old man paid no attention to the gooseflesh on his arms until he had finished draping his jacket over the bundle, tucking the loose folds in beneath it. Then he pulled a leather bag from a pouch in his undershirt, squeezed from it a quantity of yellow grease, and briskly rubbed it over his exposed skin, causing the serpent to gleam as though newly-arrived from some humid southern jungle. The task over, he crouched back again on his heels to wait. He was hungry, but he had finished the last of his traveling rations the night before. That was of no importance, anyway, because soon the ones he waited for would come, and then there would be food.
Chin tilted down, cobalt eyes smoldering beneath his icy brows, Jarnauga watched the southern approaches. He was an old, old man, and the rigors of time and weather had made him hard and spare. In a way he looked forward to the hour that was coming soon, when Death called for him and took him to her dark, quiet hall. Silence and solitude held no terror; they had been the warp and weft of his long life. He wanted only to finish the task that had been set before him, to hand on a torch that others might use in the darkness ahead; then he would let life and body go as easily as he shrugged the snow from his bare shoulders.
Thinking of the solemn halls that waited at the final turn of his road, he remembered his beloved Tungoldyr, left behind him a fortnight ago. As he had stood upon his doorstep that last day, the little town where he had spent most of his four and a half score of years had stretched before him, as empty as the legendary Huelheim that awaited him when his work was done. All of Tungoldyr’s other inhabitants had fled months before; only Jarnauga remained in the village called Moon Door, perched among the high Mimilfell Mountains, but still in the shadow of distant Sturmrspeik—the Stormspike. The winter had hardened into a cold that even the Rimmersmen of Tungoldyr had never known before, and the nighttime songs of the winds had changed into something that had the sound of howling and weeping in it, until men went mad and were found laughing in the morning, their families dead around them.
Only Jarnauga had remained in his small house as the ice mists became thick as wool in the mountain passes and the narrow streets of the town, Tungoldyr’s sloping roofs seeming to float like the ships of ghost warriors sailing the clouds. No one but Jarnauga had been around to see the nickering lights of Stormspike burn brighter and brighter, to hear the sounds of vast, harsh music that wound in and out through the din of thunder, playing across the mountains and valleys of this northernmost province of Rimmersgard.
But now even he—his time come around at last, as made known to him by certain signs and messages—had left Tungoldyr to the creeping darkness and cold. Jarnauga knew that no matter what happened, he would never again see the sun on the wooden houses, or listen to the singing of the mountain rills as they splashed past his front door, down to the swelling Gratuvask. Neither would he stand on his porch in the clear, dark spring nights and see the lights in the sky—the shimmering northern lights that had been there since his boyhood, not the guttering, sickly flares now playing about the dark face of Stormspike. Such things were gone, now. His road ahead was plain, but there was little joy in it.
But not everything was clear, even now. There was still the nagging dream to be dealt with, the dream of the black book and the three swords. It had dogged his sleep for a fortnight, but its meaning was still hidden from him.
His thoughts were interrupted by a blotch of movement on the southern approach, far away along the rim of the trees dotting the Wealdhelm’s western skirts. He squinted briefly, then slowly nodded his head and rose to his feet.
As he was pulling his coat back on, the wind changed direction; a moment later a dim mutter of thunder rolled down from the north. It came again, a low growl like a beast struggling awake from sleep. On its heels, but from the opposite direction, the sound of hooves grew from a murmur to a noise that rivaled the thunder.
As Jarnauga picked up his cage of birds and walked out to meet the riders, the sounds grew together—thunder tolling in the north, the muffled din of approaching horsemen to the south—until they filled the white forest with their cold rumble, like music made on drums of ice.
29
Hunters and Hunted
The hollow roar of the river filled his ears. For a heartbeat it seemed to Simon that the water was the only moving thing—that the archers on the far side, Marya, he himself, all had been frozen into immobility by the impact of the arrow that quivered in Binabik’s back. Then another shaft spat past the white-faced girl, splintering noisily against a broken cornice of shining stone, and all was frantic movement once more.
Only half-aware of the insectlike scuttling of the archers across the water, Simon covered the distance back to the girl and troll in three steps. He bent to look, a strange, isolated part of his mind noticing how the boy’s leggings Marya wore had tattered holes at the knee, and an arrow snicked through his shirt beneath his arm. At first he thought it had missed him completely; a moment later he felt a flare of pain sizzle along his rib cage.
More darts skimmed past, hitting low on the tiles before them and skipping like stones on a lake. Simon quickly kneeled and scooped the silent troll into his arms, feeling the horrible, stiff arrow quiver between his fingers. He turned, putting his back between the little man and the archers—Binabik was so pale! He was dead, he must be!—then stood. The pain in his ribs burned him again, and he staggered, Marya catching at his elbow.
“Loken’s Blood!” screamed the black-garbed Ingen, his far-off voice a faint murmur in Simon’s ear. “You’re killing them, you idiots! I said to keep them there! Where is Baron Heahferth?!”
Qantaqa had run down to Join them; Marya tried to wave the wolf away as she and Simon lumbered up the stairs into Da’ai Chikiza. One last feathered shaft cracked into the step behind them, then the air was still again.
“Heahferth is here, Rimmersman!” a voice shouted amid the clamor of armored men. Simon looked back from the top step. His heart sank.
A dozen men in battle array were rushing past Ingen and his bowmen, heading straight for the Gate of Stags, the bridge Simon and his companions had passed beneath just before coming ashore. The baron himself rode behind them on his red horse, a long spear held above his head. They couldn’t have Gutrun even the foot soldiers for long—the baron’s horse would catch them in three breaths.
“Simon! Run!” Marya jerked his arm, pulling him forward at a stumble. “We must hide in the city!” But Simon knew that was hopeless, too. By the time they reached the first concealment the soldiers would be upon them.
“Heahferth!” Ingen Jegger’s voice cried out behind them, a flat, small sound above the river’s drone. “You can’t! Don’t be a fool, Erkynlander, your horse…!”
The rest was lost in water sounds; if Heahferth heard he did not seem to care. In a moment the clangor of his soldiers’ feet upon the bridge was matched by the pounding of hoofbeats on stone.
Even as the din of pursuit mounted, Simon caught the toe of his boot on an uprooted tile and pitched forward.
A spear in the back…he thought to himself in midfall, and: How did all this happen? Then he was tumbling painfully onto his shoulder, rolling to protect the cradled body of the troll.
He lay on his back staring up at the patches of sky gleaming through the dark dome of trees, Binabik’s not unsubstantial weight perched on his chest. Marya was pulling at his shirt, trying to get him upright. He wanted to tell her it was not important now, no longer worth the bother, but as he sat up on one elbow, propping the troll’s body with his other arm, he saw a strange thing happening below.
In the middle of the long, arching bridge, Baron Heahferth and his men had stopped moving—no, that was not quite correct, they were swaying in place—the men-at-arms clinging to the bridge’s low walls, the baron perched atop his horse, his features not quite distinguishable from this distance, but his pose that of a man who is startled out of sleep. A moment later, for no reason Simon could discern, the horse reared and plunged forward; the men fo
llowed, running faster than before. Immediately after—a flicker behind the movement—Simon heard a great crack, as though a giant hand had snapped off a tree trunk for a toothpick. The bridge seemed to come unstuck in the middle.
Before the shocked, fascinated eyes of Simon and Marya, the slender Gate of Stags plunged downward, middle first, stones crumbling loose in great angular shards to crash foaming into the water below. For a few pulsebeats it seemed that Heahferth and his soldiers would reach the far side; then, rippling like a shook-out blanket, the arc of stone folded in on itself, sending a writhing mass of arms, legs. pale faces, and a thrashing horse toppling down amidst the ragged blocks of milky chalcedony, to disappear in gouts of green water and white froth. A few moments later the head of the baron’s horse appeared several ells downstream, neck straining upward, then it slid back into the swirling river.
Simon slowly tilted his head around to the base of the bridge. The two archers were on their knees, staring into the torrent; the blackhooded figure of Ingen stood behind them, staring across at the companions. It felt like his pale eyes were only inches away…
“Get up!” Marya shouted, pulling at Simon’s hair. He freed his gaze from Ingen Jegger’s with an almost palpable snap of separation, like a cord fraying through. He climbed to his feet, balancing his small burden, and they turned and fled into the echoes and tall shadows of Da’ai Chikiza.
Simon’s arms were aching after a hundred steps, and it felt as though a knife was sliding in and out of his side; he fought to stay even with the girl as they followed the bounding wolf through the ruins of the Sithi city. It was like running through a cave of trees and icicles, a forest of vertical shimmer and dark, mossy corruption. Shattered tile was everywhere, and massive tangles of spiderwebs strung across beautiful, crumbling arches. Simon felt as though he had been swallowed by some incredible ogre with innards of quartz and jade and mother-of-pearl. The river sounds became muted behind them; the rasp of their own hard breathing vied with the scrape of their running feet.
At last, it seemed they were reaching the outskirts of the city: the tall trees, hemlock and cedar and towering pine, were closer together, and the tiled flooring that had been everywhere underfoot now dwindled to pathways coiling at the feet of the forest giants.
Simon stopped running. His eyesight was blackening at the edges. He stood in place and felt the earth reel about him. Marya took his hand and led him a few limping steps to an ivy-choked mound of stone that Simon, his sight slowly returning, recognized as a well. He set Binabik’s body down gently on the pack that Marya had been carrying, propping the little man’s side against the rough cloth, then leaned on the well’s rim to suck air into his needy lungs. His side continued to throb.
Marya squatted next to Binabik, pushing away Qantaqa’s nose as the wolf prodded at her silent master. Qantaqa took a step back, making a whimpering sound of incomprehension, then lay down with her muzzle on her paws. Simon felt hot tears spring to his eyes.
“He’s not dead.”
Simon stared at Marya, then at Binabik’s colorless face. “What?” he asked. “What do you mean?”
“He’s not dead,” she repeated without looking up. Simon kneeled beside her. She was right: the troll’s chest was moving almost imperceptibly. A frothy bubble of blood on his lower lip pulsed in time.
“Usires Aedon.” Simon wiped his hand across his dripping forehead. “We have to take the arrow out.”
Marya looked at him sharply. “Are you mad? If we do, the life will run out of him! He’ll have no chance at all!”
“No.” Simon shook his head. “The doctor told me, I’m sure he did, but I don’t know if I can get it out, anyway. Help me to take off his jacket.”
When they had pried cautiously at the jacket for a moment, they realized there was no possible way to remove it without pulling on the arrow. Simon cursed. He needed something to cut the jacket away, something sharp. He pulled the salvaged pack over by a strap and began to rummage through it. Even in his sorrow and pain he was gratified to discover the White Arrow, still wrapped in its shroud of rags. He pulled it out and began loosening the knot that held the strips of cloth.
“What are you doing?” Marya demanded. “Haven’t we had enough arrows?”
“I need something sharp to cut with,” he grunted. “It’s a pity we’ve lost part of Binabik’s staff…it’s the part that’s got a knife in it.”
“Is that what you’re doing?” Marya reached into her shirt and pulled out a small knife in a leather sheath, hung on a throng around her neck. “Geloë told me I should have it,” she explained, unsheathing it and passing it over. “It’s not much good against archers.”
“And bowmen aren’t much good at keeping bridges from falling, praise God.” Simon began to saw away at the oiled hide.
“Do you think that’s all that happened?” Marya said after a while.
“What do you mean?” Simon panted. It was hard work, but he had cut upward from the bottom of the jacket and past the arrow, revealing a sticky mass of congealed blood. He pulled the knife blade up toward the collar.
“That the bridge just…fell.” Marya looked up at the light filtering down through the twining greenery. “Maybe the Sithi were angry about what was happening in their city.”
“Pfah.” Simon clenched his teeth and split the last piece of hide. “The Sithi who are alive don’t live here anymore, and if the Sithi don’t die, like the doctor told me, then there aren’t any spirits to make bridges fall.” He spread the wings of the split jacket and winced. The troll’s back was covered in drying blood. “You heard the Rimmersman shouting at Heahferth: he didn’t want him to take his horse on the bridge. Now let me think, damn you!”
Marya raised her hand as though to strike him; Simon looked up, and their eyes locked. For the first time he saw that the girl, too, had been crying. “I gave you my knife!” she said.
Simon shook his head, confused, “It’s just that…that devil Ingen may have already found another place to cross. He’s got two archers, at least, and who knows what’s become of the hounds…and…and this little man is my friend.” He turned back to the bloodied troll.
Marya was silent for a moment. “I know,” she said at last.
The arrow had entered at an angle, striking a good hand’s length from the center of the spine. By carefully tilting the small body, Simon was able to slide his hand underneath. His fingers quickly found the sharp iron arrowhead protruding from just below Binabik’s arm, near the front of his ribs.
“Blazes! It’s gone right through him!” Simon thought frantically. “A moment…a moment…”
“Break the point off,” Marya suggested, her voice now calm.
“Then you can pull it through more easily—if you’re sure you should.”
“Of course!” Simon was elated, and a bit dizzy. “Of course.”
It took him no little time to cut through the arrow beneath its head; the little knife had been considerably dulled. When he finished, Marya helped him tilt Binabik into the position where the arrow was most flexible. Then, with a silent prayer to the Aedon under his tongue, he eased the arrow out through the wound made by its entry as fresh blood welled around it. He stared at the hateful object for a moment, then threw it away. Qantaqa raised her massive head to watch its flight, gave a rumbling moan, and slumped back down.
They wrapped Binabik in the rags from the White Arrow, along with strips cut from his ruined jacket, then Simon picked up the still faintly-breathing troll and cradled him.
“Geloë said climb the Stile. I don’t know where that is, but we’d best continue on to the hills,” he said. Marya nodded.
The glimpses of sun through the treetops told them it was near noontime as they left the overgrown well. They passed quickly through the fringes of the decaying city, and within an hour found the land beginning to slope upward beneath their weary feet. The troll was again becoming a difficult burden. Simon was too proud to say anything, but he was sweating profusely
, and his back and arms had begun to ache fully as much as his wounded side. Marya suggested that he cut leg holes in the pack so that it could be used to carry Binabik. After some consideration, Simon discarded the idea. For one thing, it would mean too much jouncing for the helpless, unconscious troll; also, they would have to leave some of the pack’s contents behind, and most of that was food.
When the gently rising land began to change into steep, brushy slopes of sedge and thistle, Simon at last waved Marya to a stop. He set the little man down and stood for a moment, hands on hips, sides puffing in and out as he got back his breath.
“We…we must…I must…rest…” he huffed. Marya looked up at his flushed face with sympathy.
“You can’t carry him all the way to the top of the hills, Simon,” she said gently. “It looks to get steeper ahead. You’ll need your hands to climb with.”
“He’s…my friend,” Simon said stubbornly. “I can…do it.”
“No, you can’t.” Marya shook her head. “If we can’t use the pack to carry him, then we must…” Her shoulders slumped, and she slid down to sit on a rock. “I don’t know what we must, but we must,” she finished.
Simon sagged down beside her. Qantaqa had disappeared up the slope, bounding nimbly along where it would take the boy and girl long minutes to follow.
Suddenly, an idea came to Simon. “Qantaqa!” he called, rising to his feet and spilling the pack out on the grassy ground before him. “Qantaqa! Come here!”
Working feverishly, the unspoken thought of Ingen Jegger a hovering shadow, Simon and Marya wrapped Binabik up neck to toe in the girl’s cloak, then balanced the troll stomach down on Qantaqa’s back, tying him in place with the last shredded strips of clothing from out of the pack. Simon remembered the position from his involuntary ride to Duke Isgrimnur’s camp, but he knew that if the thick cloak was between Binabik’s ribs and the wolf’s back, the little man would at least be able to breathe. Simon knew it was not a good situation for a wounded, probably dying, troll, but what else could be done? Marya was right; he would need his hands going up the hill.