Songs of the Earth (59 page)

Again and again the ivy lunged for them, across the earth, out of the hedges at throat-height. The angel swung its sword, and branches rained down. Fumes from the foul black sap stung Gair’s throat. He lost track of how far they ran. Each turn brought only more dying hedges, or some that were completely dead, the thorn-bushes choked with ivy or torn down by the weight of the parasite. There the angel shuddered and withdrew its hand.

Gair’s muscles burned. When his weary feet finally tripped him and sent him sprawling, he had no strength to get up.

The angel reached for his hand.
We do not have much time
.

‘I can’t. I can’t go on.’

You must
.

‘I can’t!’

Get up! You must, or you will be lost
. The angel’s fingers closed on his wrist and hauled him halfway to his knees.
I will not lose you to him! Up!

Another tug got his knees under him. From further back along the path came the patter of falling leaves.

Quickly! Time is running out!

Gair lurched to his feet, although the effort nearly sent him down again.

The angel thrust its shoulder under his arm and they stumbled forward. Round the next corner they came face to face with ivy carpeting the earth in mottled leaves and draping in great swathes from the ravaged hedges. Roots writhed in the broken earth.

Back, quickly!

Gair lumbered back the way they had come, only to skid to a halt a few yards further on as thick ropes of ivy swarmed over the hedges towards them. The angel hissed in irritation and swung them round again. They had no choice but to go forward.

Ivy roofed the passage now. It rustled and sighed where there was no breeze to be felt, and under it shadows pooled. The stems ceased their lunging and coiled restlessly, waiting.

We must go through
.

‘Blessed are the lost, for they shall find salvation in you,’ Gair mumbled. He could not keep his head up. Even those few words made him cough.

Hold onto that thought
. The angel levelled its fiery sword. It glowed white-hot as a crack into the furnaces of heaven, and fire leapt from the blade.

A shriek augered through Gair’s ears. Torn leaves rained down and the air filled with the tang of char.

Run!
the angel commanded.

He staggered a step or two, then lurched forward, arms windmilling as the flat of the angel’s hand connected with his rump. Ivy writhed and flailed under his boots, but this time it was more intent on cringing away from the angel’s blade than in holding
onto him. Ducking the last few clutching stems, he stumbled out into daylight and crashed onto his knees.

We have no time
, the angel said.
You must keep running!

Drawing on his very last reserves of energy, Gair broke into a lumbering trot. Broken branches crunched under his feet. Here the hedges were more dead than alive, and the angel did not bother to touch them as it passed. Too much was lost to the ivy to be saved. With the angel supporting him, he concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. He was desperately near his limits. Around him the ivy shuddered with its own pain.

The angel stopped abruptly, head cocked as if listening. Then it moved quickly to the right.
We are very close now. You must be strong
.

‘I can’t.’

You can – you are strong enough, Gair. Trust me
.

Too tired to protest, Gair let himself be tugged around a corner and along a straight path where a mighty hand had swept the hedges aside. Dead boughs littered the ground. His pace slowed, but he scrambled across to where the angel directed.

There were more paths between broken hedges, more turns, then at last the angel stopped. They had reached what had once been a small square. All that remained of the hedges that had surrounded it were blasted stumps, poking up from a shroud of ivy. Branches as thick as Gair’s thigh humped and coiled all around, carpeting the earth with coarse leaves that gleamed like old leather. Saggy loops roofed the square, through which only a little sunlight penetrated to illuminate the trunk squatting at the centre.

This is the heart of it
. The angel pointed at the fissured black bark.
You must strike there
.

Around them, the ivy shivered. Thin shoots groped towards them but kept their distance.

‘Strike with what?’

With your sword. I will protect your back, but you must be quick and sure. Strike for the heartwood, and make each blow tell
.

‘I don’t have a sword.’

Yes, you do. Reach for it, where it has always been
.

He reached over his shoulder. Raw fingers closed on the worn grip that felt shaped to fit his hand. He tugged, and the blade unsheathed without effort, winking in the dim light.

Deep inside him, something stirred. A tingling, tickling sensation stole along his nerves, into the muscles of his arm and hand, then down into the sword. Where it passed, some of his weariness washed away. Strengthened, he lifted the old sword and its blade burst into white flame.

Ivy stems lunged, and the angel’s weapon darted out, there, and there. Severed creeper thrashed.

Now strike!

Gair drew back his sword. It would be good to see where he was working. An overhand blow sheared through the sagging ivy overhead, and shrieks assailed his ears as foul sap showered his shoulder and arm, but he ignored them and hacked a hole wide enough to admit a haywain. Daylight flooded in.

That was better. Stepping forward, he swung the fiery blade into the thick trunk in front of him. The shriek rose to a painful pitch, and lashing stems clutched at him, but the angel was there to cut them back. Holding the sword in a two-handed grip, like a lumberman with an axe, he struck again.

Fumes from the sap made breathing difficult, and soon he was panting, which only served to draw more of the filthy air into his lungs and made him cough. Doggedly, he swung and struck, swung and struck, and chips of dark wood flew around him.

Overhead the ivy rocked and flailed. Black sap ran, thick as oil, and flashed into dust where it met the flaming blade.

Again!
the angel urged.
You must reach the heartwood!

He swung. ‘Hail, Mother, full of grace—’

More wood chips, and a rising stench.

‘—light and life of all the world—’

Spatter from the blade pocked the leaves around him.

‘—blessed are the meek, for they shall find strength in you—’

The shriek became a keen. The deep notch Gair had cut into the trunk widened like an obscene mouth as the crown of the ivy-tree rocked. Gritting his teeth, he drew back for another blow.

TCHUNK!

‘—blessed are the merciful, for they shall find justice in you—’

TCHUNK!
More chips; thick gobs of sap splattered his boots.

‘—blessed are the lost, for they shall find salvation in you—’

TCHUNK!
The cleft in the ivy’s trunk yawned wider and wider as the weight of its branches toppled it backwards. With a splintering crash, the crown of the tree hit the earth, leaving a jagged, weeping stump. Gair reversed his grip on the sword and plunged the point into the heart of the exposed wood.

‘Amen.’

Wailing filled his head. He leaned all his weight onto the cross-hilt and the steel slid deep into the heartwood. All around him branches spasmed, and bruised leaves and stinking sap filled the air. The wails trailed off into sobs, tumbling down through the registers of audibility until they were felt rather than heard, until there was silence.

Word spread through Chapterhouse like fire through dry bracken. The tenor urgency of the alarm ringing out from the bell-tower fanned the flames. Classes were abandoned, and the strongest apprentices and the adepts assembled in the yard. The weaker students and the youngest of those who were not
gaeden
were shepherded into the safety of the stout-walled chapel. Everyone else was sent to the refectory.

Alderan watched from the parapet above the foreyard. He saw none of the panic and confusion that had so hampered them the last time Chapterhouse had come under siege. Everyone knew their role and carried it out briskly, though palpable unease rippled through the population. He could taste it on the air, the metallic tang of a summer storm about to break.

Before the alarm bell’s last chime faded, the defenders were in place. Blue-mantled Masters were stationed all around the walls, never more than a dozen yards apart, and one by one they reached for the Song. Even those who were too young to have been involved last time Chapterhouse came under attack knew their place in the plan and stood ready. When the defenders merged their weavings to create the shield, it would be the single
most complex work of power Alderan had seen in twenty years. It did not reach as far as the one he had spun against the storm with Gair’s help, but they had been only two minds. This shield would seal Chapterhouse in a tightly woven bubble that could repel an assault by siege-engines.

I hope it’s enough. It’s all we can do
.

‘I think you were right about that storm,’ said Masen, squinting at the bruised sky. Clouds piled up on Pensaeca like clotted cream, and the light had taken on a flat, yellow quality that dulled colours and brightened white into starkness.

‘It’s starting,’ Alderan said. His gaze slid along the parapet towards Tanith. Gair had bought them some time to prepare, but at what cost? He forced himself to look away. He couldn’t help either of them now.

There was nothing more to do now but wait. Alderan walked along the wall, Masen following on silent feet. Twenty years ago they had stood back to back on these very walls whilst the powers of the Hidden raged around them. It was reassuring to have his old friend standing with him again. It felt right. Fitting.

‘We’ve seen too many battles, you and I,’ said Masen, as if he had read Alderan’s thoughts. Alderan grunted, leaning on the wall over the main gate to look out to sea.

‘We’re going to have to see one more before we’re done.’

‘I hope it’s the last. We’re getting too old for this.’ Masen grinned, but there was no humour in it.

‘Aye, that we are.’ Alderan let his head fall forward, stretching the tension from the back of his neck. ‘All right, Masen. Make them ready.’

Masen reached out to the other Masters, and a moment later, a web of power shimmered into place over Chapterhouse. The size of the weaving lifted the hairs on Alderan’s arms and made his scalp feel too small to contain his skull. Even without the Song, the shield was visible as an iridescence against the sky. When he embraced his power, the warp and weft broke the sunlight into
spangles, like crystals spun into thread. The weave was as tight as the melding of so many minds could ever hope to achieve. It had to be enough.

Alderan raised his right arm. Barin, up in the bell-tower, lifted a hand in response, then, one by one, the other Masters acknowledged him. He counted them off, all the figures tucked amongst the stacks and gables, and the brush of colours from those he could not see. He slid his awareness along the threads of the weave, checking each anchor, though he knew they were secure.

‘You worry enough for all of us, Alderan.’ Donata’s voice dragged his attention back. She perched on a stool in the corner where the north and west walls met, her sketchbook open on her knees and her water pot balanced in the embrasure next to her. With deft strokes she drew sullen clouds mounding over a green island, whilst offshore a sleek ship leaned her shoulder into the waves.

‘Does it show?’

She smiled and dabbed ochre from her palette. ‘A little bit.’

Alderan peered over the wall. The
Morning Star
was indeed standing out into the channel.

‘How can you be calm enough to paint at a time like this?’

‘How can I be calm without painting?’ She held out her brush hand. ‘It’s the only thing that keeps my hands from shaking.’

‘I suppose I should have known, after all these years. I just never thought to ask.’ Alderan chuckled. ‘What will you do when the light fails?’