‘No, I –’ Wait a moment. The Folds . . . I’d heard that name before. A name the Good Folk used when speaking of Shadowfell. ‘I am headed for a p-place close to there, yes. B-but without a fire . . .’
‘You’ll soon freeze, aye. I can help. You’re no’ afraid of a few wee doggies?’
‘I j-just need to g-get warm . . .’
The owlish creature let out an eldritch hollow cry that sent shivers up my spine. There was a silence; the very air around us seemed to be waiting. Then came the reply: the howling of many wolfish voices. I rose to my feet, stumbling in my haste. The creature shook its head.
They were here, a circle of them in the darkness, their eyes pinpricks of light as they edged closer. My heart was in my mouth. They were beautiful, no doubt of that; beautiful and deadly. I could smell them now, their hunger, their pride, their wildness. They padded forward, and I could see the white gleam of their teeth. Well, I thought crazily, I would at least provide a good meal for this hungry pack. I would die doing something useful.
‘Go small!’ The voice of the owl-like being rang out in a command, and the wolves obeyed. As they crept into my shelter, they shrank. My knees gave way under me and I sat down abruptly. The wolves settled all around me, a squirming, jostling, licking flow of them, squeezing in close, climbing on my lap, curling by my legs and body. Each was no bigger than a two-month pup. As they pressed against me, my frozen body began to thaw. Gods, what a gift it was to be warm! It seemed I would live until morning, after all.
‘Aye, that’ll do.’ The owl was keeping a firm eye on the pack. ‘No fighting, mind. No nipping and jostling about. Keep the lassie safe till sunup, you understand?’ The big eyes met mine. ‘Stay in there. No going out before first light or I can’t answer for what might befall you. There’s blood on the air. Blood and iron.’
Before I could frame words, the creature spread its wings and took flight, a white phantom vanishing into a darkness through which a few delicate flakes of snow had begun to fall. Cushioned by the soft blanket of a dozen slumbering wolf bodies, I surrendered to sleep.
They left at dawn, rippling out into the brightening world, leaving behind only their wild scent. As they passed the outermost roots of the fallen giant under which we had sheltered, the little wolves returned to their full size, not needing any command. From one breath to the next they were themselves again, their powerful long-limbed bodies flowing away across the new-fallen snow. They moved as one. Almost before I had time to get up, to stretch, to draw breath in this new day, they were gone.
I owed them my life. In return, all I had offered was that poor apology for a meal. An uneven exchange indeed. But I knew enough old stories to understand that what I had given was sufficient. The value of the gift itself did not matter; its true worth lay in its importance to the giver. If a handful of oats represented half of a traveller’s provisions, or more than half, it was a worthy gift indeed.
Perhaps, I thought as I packed my bag once more and shook out my cloak – I would smell of wolf for some time to come – perhaps my life would be worth something to the Good Folk in the long run. According to the Master of Shadows, I had demonstrated all seven virtues. I had stepped onto the road that led to becoming a skilled Caller. Once I had learned to harness my gift wisely, I could play my part in the fight for Alban’s freedom. I could help change the future. But first I must reach Shadowfell. Today, I told myself. Today you’re walking to Giant’s Fist. Time to worry about what’s next when you get there.
I picked my way down a narrow track to the valley floor, keeping an eye out for trouble. The terrain here was stony and difficult. There were no river flats, no fields, only broken ground tumbled with boulders whose ancient rock bore occasional patches of moss or lichen. A stream ran along a bed of grey shingle. It wound between small stands of pine, and it was in the cover of those trees that I stopped when I grew weary, stretching my limbs and catching my breath before I moved on. I did not allow myself to rest for long. If the wind got up later, the cold would be perishing. My fingers were numb, my feet aching. I tried not to think about another night spent in the open, in makeshift shelter. A little voice whispered inside me, This would be so much easier if Flint were here.
Many streamlets rushed down these hillsides, leaping from rock to rock in cascades of white. The waterway on the valley floor grew broader as I followed its course. I wondered if there was a lake at the foot of those mountains that lay ahead. What if this stream joined another and became a swift, wide river like the Rush? In a place like this there would surely be no bridges. What if I could not get across? I had one day’s provisions left, and a scant day at that.
No trace of the white owl today. No trace of anyone, though my steps were printed plain behind me in the snow. Had Flint passed this way already? And what about that troop of Enforcers? If they were behind me, I would lead them straight to Shadowfell. If they were ahead, I might be walking into a trap.
I walked on, nonetheless, wondering where Flint’s true loyalty lay. Who was he really working for, Keldec or the rebels? An Enthraller’s skills were a powerful weapon in anyone’s hand. Fear of mind-scraping kept folk quiet, obedient, docile. Men like Dunchan of Silverwater and his wife, who had died for their convictions, were rare. Would a rebel leader think to harness mind-scraping to his own ends? Would he consider using it, not to make people loyal to Keldec but to turn them against him? That could win the war. It could be Keldec’s downfall. But it would be wrong. Harness an evil power to serve a noble cause and surely that cause would be sullied forever.
What was Flint really up to? He had been so convincing, with his talk of freedom and a new Alban in which folk could be at peace. I could swear he meant every word. But if he had worked his mind-scraping charm on me, of course I would believe everything he said. So maybe he had been working for the king all the time. Maybe bringing me so far along the valley was part of some elaborate plan . . . But what plan? And if he had won my allegiance with his foul magic, how was it I could see through him now? ‘Curse you,’ I muttered. ‘Curse you and your clever lies.’
I paused atop a rise, my attention caught by a slight sound behind me. I turned to look. Close at hand, the neat prints of my feet in their unusual shoes stood out clearly on the snow. But further away a disturbance in the air, like a miniature whirlwind, was tracing my path. As it passed, the snow danced up, spinning beneath it. I stared, gaping. It looked like a great invisible bird going by, its wings beating above the ground, stirring the snow to hide my pathway. Where it had travelled there was no trace of footprints.
I bowed my head in acknowledgement, wondering that I was not more surprised, and moved on. Few trees ahead; few hiding places. If pursuers came up behind me, all I could do was run. I must make haste.
From down here I could no longer see the stone column of Giant’s Fist, for the contour of this narrow valley blocked it from view. I could glimpse the foothills ahead and the snowy peaks beyond them, but the landmark I needed was still out of sight. I must press on until the terrain opened up again. How long? Gods, let me reach the place by daylight. Let me be in those hills before I had to find shelter for the night again. Let me be somewhere I could safely make a fire.
Fresh snow began to fall, drifting down around me in big flakes, settling gently on my cloak. The air grew colder. I no longer stopped to rest, but made myself keep walking. My head felt muzzy, as if I might be close to fainting. I couldn’t feel my hands. Somewhere in my mind someone was saying, You said you could look after yourself. You’ve made a pretty poor job of it.
‘Go away,’ I muttered as the wind picked up and the snow began to move sideways, clinging to my eyelashes and coating the fold of shawl I was holding over my mouth and nose. ‘I will get there. I can get there.’ Left foot, right foot. One, two.
As the wind grew stronger still, howling around the bare stones of the hillside, whistling down from the mountain tops, the valley opened up and there it was before me: Giant’s Fist, two miles or so
to the northwest. Between me and the great column lay a landscape strewn with boulders, pitted with crevices, spiked with jutting spears of stone, a nightmare of traps for the weary traveller.
‘Not so bad,’ I murmured to myself, hitching up my bag. At least there would be places to hide if the Enforcers came. But the going would be slow. How long until nightfall? Could I cross this broken place before it grew too dark to do so in any safety?
A sound came on the wind. Was that a man’s voice, calling? My heart jolted. Cold sweat broke out all over my body. The shout had come from somewhere behind me. They were on my track. They were catching up.
I glanced over my shoulder, but there was no movement to be seen on the stony way down the valley, save for a pair of hawks above, turning in slow circles.
I headed out across the uneven terrain. Everything in me wanted to run, run, to stay ahead of them, of him, the man who had stolen a part of me and expected me to believe that was a good thing. But running would be stupid. If I fell and broke my ankle, I’d surely be taken.
My hands were clammy. My heart sounded a wild drumbeat. I made myself breathe slowly. I made myself judge each step with care, consider each choice – which was safer, scrambling up and across that great boulder there, or slipping through that narrow way and perhaps finding myself in a dead end? Should I attempt a snaking progress through the fissures and cracks, or go higher so I could fix my direction and risk being picked off by an arrow?
A narrow track revealed itself, winding between the rocks. I clambered down and headed along it. At first it seemed to be taking me roughly northward, but after a while it branched and branched again. With cloud blanketing the sun, it was hard to choose my way. A right fork. A left fork. The middle path of three. My skin began to prickle with unease. I paused; I thought someone paused with me. I moved on, and sensed a furtive, near-silent presence somewhere not very far away. Someone was tracking me.
What was it Silver had said at Howling Rock? Only the most skilled of human trackers could find us here. And not long afterward, Flint had walked silently into our secure haven, and the Good Folk had fled from his presence and his iron weapons. I held my breath; somewhere among the rocks someone else did the same. I waited, counting the beats of my heart. Nothing moved. No whisper sounded in the silence. The snow fell steadily.
My back was aching. My arms hurt. I longed to set down my pack, if only for a moment until I caught my breath again. I held myself still, ears alert for any sound. Nothing. If I did not move soon, I might not be able to walk.
With painstaking care I took a step, setting my foot down as softly as I could. Another step. A breath. No answering step this time. Perhaps my pursuer had given up. I took a third step.
A hand came over my mouth, strong, leather-gloved, stifling any sound. A well-muscled arm pinned me back against someone’s chest. A big knife flashed close to my face. My captor hissed in my ear.
‘Not a squeak or I’ll slit your throat. Now walk.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
My body was a jangle of shocked parts that did not seem to belong together. Walk? I could hardly breathe. The hands shifted their grip; my captor was trusting me not to speak, it seemed, for my mouth was freed and I was being half-ushered, half-dragged through the narrow ways between the rocks, left, right, up, down, a swifter, rougher passage than I could possibly have found for myself, until a sudden turn, a zigzag descent and a final slide down a pebbly slope brought us onto a broad expanse of level ground, encircled by rock walls perhaps twice a tall man’s height. As I was marched out into the open area, my heart pounding, I saw that there were people there, twelve, maybe fifteen of them, grim-faced folk plainly dressed in clothing of thick felted wool or sheepskin. Most of them were young, and all of them were armed. There were bows and arrows, clubs, knives, swords, staves, and other implements whose names I did not know but whose purpose was not hard to guess. I fought back my panic, looking for telltale signs: a stag brooch, an Enforcer cloak, a weapon similar to Flint’s. It would be easy enough for king’s men to go in disguise. I could see nothing obvious.
All eyes were on us as we approached. The faces wore a uniform expression of surprise. I had had my own surprise when my captor first spoke, and it was reinforced when, suddenly released from the grip of those powerful arms, I turned to take a look.
The person was tall, broad-shouldered and clad in a padded wool tunic and trousers, over which were a leather breast piece and arm braces. Strong boots; heavy gauntlets; a short sword at the belt and an axe in a sort of sling. A leather cap; a swathing cloth over nose and mouth, above which a pair of long-lashed dark eyes regarded me as if I were, not a trophy, nor yet an enemy, but merely a fool and a nuisance. The warrior garments just failed to conceal what my captor’s voice had already revealed to me: this formidable individual was a young woman.
She pushed me ahead of her across the open ground, up to a place where a small group of men seemed to be waiting for us. My captor had her hand on my shoulder and her grip was not gentle. She halted three paces away from the men, keeping a hold on me.
‘Found her not far away, headed in our direction,’ she said.
‘Are they in sight?’ someone asked.
She gave a curt nod. ‘Five miles and closing. The girl’s a complication we could do without. You, take off your bag and be quick about it.’ She gave me a shove, then released me. And when I stood there, wondering if the story I’d had ready for so long might possibly be of any help here, she snapped, ‘Now!’
I removed the bag, which was promptly taken away by one of the men. I tried to breathe slowly. I tried to think of a plan.
‘Who are you and what in the name of the gods are you doing here?’ The speaker was a man like a bright blade, a man whose authority shone in his high-boned, handsome features. His hair was russet; his eyes were the hue of a highland sky in summer. He spoke as if he was in a hurry.
‘Calla,’ I managed. ‘I’m heading for Stonewater. Seeking kinfolk.’
A short silence.
‘Stonewater, is it? And where might that be?’ The man who spoke was taller, darker, a lean person with an edgy look. At the wrists of his long shirt I could see the marks of tattooing, an elaborate pattern of interlinked chains. Around his neck was another decoration, like a line of dark birds in flight. His long hair was twisted into a number of thin plaits. His eyes were like the girl’s, black and shrewd.
‘North.’ I waved a hand vaguely. ‘Up there.’
‘You’ll need to do better than that,’ the young woman said. ‘We know there’s no such place. And children like you don’t wander about in the snow looking for family, not unless they’re out of their minds.’ Her hand tightened on my shoulder, making me wince with pain. ‘Tell the truth! Who brought you here? What is your purpose? Don’t waste our time, girl. We don’t take kindly to spies here.’
‘All right, Tali,’ the red-haired man said. ‘Get everyone in place and leave this to me.’
She turned on her heel and stalked off without a backward glance.
‘Regan?’ The man who had taken my bag was back, and in his right hand was my knife, the one Flint had given me the night before that terrible morning. In his left lay the sheath I had made, with its feather and pebble charms and its intricate knots. ‘Take a look at this.’
Regan. My heart skipped a beat.
The red-haired man took the knife, weighing it in his hands. His eyes met mine, and I saw something in them that steadied me. I sensed that here was a person who would be prepared to listen. ‘Where did you get this knife?’ he asked. ‘Be quick in your answers, we don’t have long.’
‘Someone gave it to me.’
‘What someone was that, Calla?’
‘I can’t tell you.’
The man nodded. ‘And the sheath?’
I took a risk. ‘I made it.’
‘Mm-hm.’
‘What about those?’ The dark man’s question was quick as a dagger thrust. He was looking at my fey-mende
d shoes. ‘Made those too, did you?’
I stood frozen. I wanted to believe I was among friends. But I could not bring myself to tell the truth. Speaking out about a canny gift was like putting your head into the hangman’s noose. For years now I had watched every word, treading the knife edge between trust and betrayal.
‘If I could,’ said the red-haired man, ‘I’d offer you food and shelter and give you time before I pressed you for answers. But there is no time.’ He glanced at the other man, and a silent message seemed to pass between them. He turned his attention back to me. ‘What if I told you I’ve seen that cloak before?’
They knew. They knew about Flint, no doubt of it. I hesitated.
‘Tell the truth,’ he said. ‘It’s in your best interest.’
‘The shoes are mine. A friend mended them. The cloak was a gift.’
‘From the same fellow who gave you the knife.’ The dark man folded his arms.
‘I’m on my own now,’ I said, shivering. If these folk were in league with the Enforcers, if I had fallen into a trap, it was already too late to save myself. If these were indeed Regan’s Rebels, and that was looking more likely by the moment, I should tell them the truth. But this could be some kind of trick.
‘What if I told you,’ the red-haired man said, ‘that your name is not Calla? That you are on your way north for a particular purpose that has nothing to do with visiting an old grandmother or a distant cousin?’
‘If I had another purpose, would I explain it to folk who grabbed hold of me as if I were a miscreant? Would I tell my story to a stranger?’
‘You might,’ he said, ‘if you and that stranger had a mutual friend.’
Flint. ‘I have no friends,’ I said.
‘Regan,’ said one of the men. ‘Time’s short.’
Regan sighed. ‘Let’s start again. I see you’re wearing an unusual pair of shoes, Calla. I notice you also have a cloak I suspect once belonged to a trusted friend of ours. You are carrying a knife of a kind that most young women don’t keep about their person, a fighting man’s knife with a pattern on the hilt that I happen to know very well, since I was there when the thing was made. This weapon you do not carry in its original sheath but in another whose making suggests a certain . . . ancient knowledge.’ His gaze was level, sombre, but somehow reassuring. ‘We were expecting you,’ he said quietly. ‘Or someone very like you. Only not now, and not here. If your companion has sent you to us today, on your own, something’s gone wrong, and we need to know what it is.’