Sorcerer of the North (16 page)

The thin powdering of fresh snow on the cobbles squeaked under his boots as he made his way to the postern gate beside the massive portcullis. One of the sentries stopped him as he made his way into the post beside the gate.

"Where are you off to then, jongleur?" he asked. His manner as neither friendly nor unfriendly.

Will shrugged. "Can't sleep," he said. Then, gesturing to the dog, "And she's always ready for a walk."

The sentry raised an eyebrow at him. "This is not a good place to go walking at night," he said. "But if you must go, you'd be best to stay away from Grimsdell Wood."

"Grimsdell Wood?" Will said, assuming a slightly amused, skeptical tone. "Isn't that where the ghoulies and ghosties gather?" He smiled cheerfully at the sentry to let him know that such superstitions meant little to him. The sentry shook his head.

"Make fun of it if you like. But a wise man would give it a wide berth."

"Well then, perhaps I will," said Will, sounding totally insincere. "Where is it exactly, so that I can make sure I stay away from it?"

There was a long pause while the soldier looked at him, recognizing his disbelief and bridling slightly at the ridicule underlying the minstrel's words. Jongleurs, he thought, they're always so clever, always so quick to joke about things. Finally, he pointed to his left.

"It's that way," he said, holding in his anger. "About a kilometer. And you'll know it when you see it, believe me. I'll let the sentries on the wall know you've gone out," he added, "in case you make it back."

And, feeling that he had had the last word, he opened the small postern gate beside the portcullis, allowing Will and the dog to slip through. The gate banged shut behind them and Will heard the bolts sliding home almost immediately. In country like this, one didn't leave gates open any longer than necessary once the sun was down.

For the same reason, the massive drawbridge was up. It wouldn't be lowered again till after sunrise. But there was a narrow two-plank access bridge across the moat that protected this side of the castle. Will stepped across it easily, the dog a little less so. He'd noticed before that she didn't like the feeling of uncertain footing underneath her.

He looked back at the castle, a crouching black mass above him. He could see one or two dark shapes moving on the battlements and realized these would be the night guards.

Resisting the temptation to wave, he struck out in the direction the sentry had indicated. The dog followed him then. As he snapped his fingers and said the word "Free," she quested ahead, running in a wide arc some twenty meters ahead of him, stopping and sniffing at new scents, cocking an ear at new sounds, but continually checking back to make sure Will was following.

There was a wild beauty to the countryside under its cover of snow. The road itself held only the thin dusting that had fallen that night. But in the fields and trees beside the road, the snow still lay thick and heavy from previous falls. Will had always loved the sight of a snowscape at night and he walked on contentedly, thinking over the events of the evening and the total disparity in the characters of Lord Orman and his cousin.

Gradually, the open countryside and the cleared fields began to give way as trees and bushes encroached closer to the road. It was darker here, without the fields and their cover of snow to reflect the ambient light, and Will felt a sense of the countryside pressing in on him. Crowding him. Watching him. He loosened the saxe knife in its sheath and touched the hilt of the throwing knife behind his neck. He told himself that this was nothing to do with superstition. It was just good sense in a potentially dangerous piece of country. He noticed that the dog's questing had fallen into a narrower arc than before. She obviously preferred the clear ground as well. But he reasoned that she would sense any ambush ahead of them and give him warning, so he continued.

And found himself at the edge of Grimsdell Wood.

Grimsdell Wood loomed—there was no other word for it. The trees here were taller, darker and more closely packed. The shadows under them were dense and impenetrable. The wood was brooding and dark and seemed determined to conceal its secrets from strangers.

The sentry had been right, he thought. He did know it when he saw it.

He walked slowly along the edge of the trees, clicking his fingers once to bring the dog back beside him. Her ears were pricked, he realized, and her eyes swept from him to the wood and back again, as she sensed where his attention was focused.

Then her hackles went up and she growled softly, her gaze riveted to one side. Will looked in that direction but for the moment saw nothing through the tangle of trees and undergrowth. Then he dropped into a crouch and for a moment saw a faint red glow moving among the shadows. Just for a moment. Then it was gone.

He felt the hairs rising on the back of his neck as he stood erect once more. He shook his head and laughed softly.

"It's a light," he told himself. "Nothing more."

She growled again, and this time Will saw the movement from the corner of his eye. A blue glow this time—that seemed to flare briefly in the tops of the trees and then disappear. He wasn't even sure than he had seen anything—but the dog's behavior confirmed that he had.

Then the red glow was back once more—and gone again before he could focus on it clearly. This time it was in a part of the wood several hundred meters from where it had first appeared. Will felt his heart beating faster, and his hands dropped to the saxe knife once more.

"Come on, girl," he said. "There must be a path into this wood somewhere."

He found one some thirty meters farther along. It was narrow and twisting, with barely enough room for one man. Perhaps it was a game trail. Or perhaps it had been made by man. Either way, he went forward into the wood, the dog moving a pace or two ahead of him, head down, nose to the ground.

After twenty paces, Will looked behind him and could no longer see the way out of the wood. The path twisted so much and the undergrowth and creepers and trees twined together so closely that his world had become confined to a space of a few meters. He continued on, his hand still on the saxe knife hilt. Years of Ranger training meant that he moved with virtually no sound and now he began instinctively to use the shadow patterns as cover for his movement.

There was no further sign of lights among the trees. Perhaps, he thought, the light bearers had been scared off when he entered the wood. The thought made him a little more relaxed. Maybe he wasn't the only one in this wood feeling nervous. He smiled at the thought and moved on.

Then the whispering started.

It was right at the limit of hearing, so that at first he wasn't totally sure he could actually hear anything. Then, he thought that perhaps it was the wind through the leaves—except there was no wind. It was an almost imperceptible susurration that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. He looked at the dog. She had stopped, one forepaw raised, head cocked to one side, listening. So the sound was there. But it was impossible to determine where it came from, and that made it impossible to make out whether it was voices or just a sound. It ebbed and flowed at the very edge of his senses, sometimes drowned by the accelerated sound of his own heartbeat, sometimes becoming almost clear, almost comprehensible. And then, in the middle of the indeterminate muttering, he began to make out individual words.

Unpleasantly evocative words. Once, he thought he clearly heard a voice say:
pain.
And then the muttering died until he heard, or thought he heard, the word
death.
And
suffering, darkness
and
terror.
Then more meaningless, wordless whispering.

He looked at the dog again. She remained alert but the actual words, of course, held no meaning for her. She was reacting only to the sound. His mind went back to the terror he had felt years before, when he and Halt and Gilan were hunting the evil Kalkara beasts across the Solitary Plain. Then, as now, the terror of unknown sounds had seized and threatened to overwhelm him. But then, he'd had the reassuring presence of Halt to quell his fears. Now he had only himself.

He took a deep breath. The saxe knife made a soft hiss as it slid from its oiled scabbard and he said, clearly and firmly, to the shadows around him:

"Steel."

The whispering stopped.

The dog looked at him. Her tail wagged once. Her hackles lowered and he felt better.
Face your fears,
Halt had always taught him,
and more often than not they will fade like mist in the sunshine.
Whispering and words were one thing, he thought. The razor-sharp, heavy saxe knife was another altogether. More practical. More real. More compelling.

And altogether more dangerous.

"Lead on, dog. Let's find these whisperers." He gestured for the animal to continue. He followed a few steps behind her, confident in her ability to sense danger.

It was as well he let her lead. Otherwise he might have walked straight into the black waters of the mere that suddenly appeared as they rounded a bend.

The path skirted its edge to the right. Set among the trees, it was an expanse of black water thirty meters across. At its edge, the trees trailed creepers into the water and leaned over to meet each other—some so tall that they nearly touched hands with their opposite neighbors—so that there was clear sky only above the center of the lake.

Vapor rose from the water's surface, twisting in wreaths of fine mist that dissipated as they rose to the trees. And bubbles broke the surface where rotting vegetation lay below. Or where some large creature breathed, he thought. On the far side of the water, opposite where he stood, the mist seemed to be thicker, forming what was most a curtain. He stopped to study the phenomenon, wondering why the mist should be thicker in that one spot. The dog sank to her belly, watching him intently, ready to move off if he started walking again.

Then, in a heart-stopping moment of absolute terror, a giant figure loomed out of the mist, towering high above the mere, seeming to rise from the black water itself.

It happened as quickly as that. One moment there was nothing Then, in the blink of an eye, the figure was there, fully formed. Huge and menacing, black against the mist, a shadow of a giant warrior in ancient, spiked armor, with a massive winged helmet on its head. It must have been twelve meters high, he thought as he stood, rooted to the spot in horror. The helmet was a full-face design, but where the eyeholes pierced it, there was empty space.

The figure seemed to shiver slightly and for one ghastly moment he thought it was moving toward him. Then he realized it was simply the movement of the mist curtain. Will's heart hammered inside his ribs, and his mouth was dry with fear. This was no mortal figure, he knew. This was something from the other side, from the dark world of sorcery and spells. Instinctively, he knew that none of his weapons could harm it.

The figure towered, unmoving apart from the slight quivering of the mist. The empty eyeholes seemed to seek him out. Then he heard the voice.

It was deep and seemed to echo around the black lake, as if he were hearing it in some vast cavern rather than the open woods.

"Beware, mortal!" it boomed. "Do not awaken the shade of the Night Warrior. Leave this place now while you are still able!"

The dog sprang to her feet at the sound of the massive voice. A growl rumbled in her throat and Will quieted her in a voice that was nowhere near steady.

"Still, girl!" he croaked, and the growling stopped. But he could see that the ruff around her neck had raised in a primeval reaction of either anger or fear. He could feel the hairs on his own neck standing on end in the same way. Across the lake, the mist seemed thicken and the terrifying figure seemed to grow more and more substantial, as if it were drawing power from the mist. This time, when it spoke, the voice was even louder than before.

"Go now while I grant you the chance! Leave!"

The final word echoed around the mere and Will found himself involuntarily moving back the way he had come, stepping away from the black lake and the hellish warrior. He stumbled on a tree root, looked down to recover himself and then, as he looked up, the Night Warrior was gone.

Just like that. In an instant, like a candle extinguished. He glanced fearfully around the mere, wondering if the warrior might reappear somewhere closer. Then the voice came again. It was low this time, nowhere near the volume of the original, and this time there were no words. Just a deep, menacing chuckle. Will's last reserves of courage left him.

"Come on, girl!" he called and, turning, he ran blindly back out of Grimsdell Wood, the dog slipping past him to lead the way to where they could see the clear night sky and the brilliant stars overhead. Only then did Will stop running. His breath came in ragged clouds of steam in the cold while his heart thumped at double time. He waited several minutes, until his breathing settled to a more natural rhythm.

When they came in sight, the black bulk of Castle Macindaw seemed welcoming and comforting to him. The torch burning by the postern gate was a beacon of safety and he hurried toward it, anxious to be inside the walls.

Will slept badly for the rest of the night, as was to be expected. His sleep was patchy and uneven, populated by dreams of the towering Night Warrior. It was only toward dawn that he managed to fall into a deep sleep and inevitably, shortly after he had, he was woken by the early morning sounds of the castle rising.

He lay for a moment on the bed, wondering if he really had seen and heard the horrific figure the night before. For a minute or two, his brain muddled by sleep, he thought it might have been a nightmare. He rose, stretching stiff limbs and muscles, realizing that his entire body had been tensed as he slept. The dog, chin on paws, belly down on the warm flagstones by the embers of the fire, cocked her ears at him and thumped her tail twice in greeting.

"It's all right for you," he said morosely. "You have no idea how terrifying that was last night." He opened the shutters and looked out at the new day. It was bright and sunny, the morning light glistening off the snow-covered countryside surrounding Macindaw. Training and discipline demanded that he should take time to review the events of the night before while they were fresh in his mind, trying to find some logical explanation for them. After ten minutes' analysis, he came to the reluctant conclusion that he
had
seen the figure. He
had
heard its voice. And he had been terrified as never before.