The Golden Door (12 page)

T
here was only one thing to do. Rye and Sonia flung themselves into the darkness of the hut, dragging the door shut behind them.

Crawling on his hands and knees, Rye fumbled for the iron bar, found it, and thrust it across the door with all his strength. A split second later, there was a thunderous crash as the charging beast slammed into the wood. The door shuddered, but held.

The beast outside bellowed its rage. Again it attacked the door. And again.

“We are safe here,” Rye shouted, reaching out for Sonia in the dark. “We are safe. The door must have been made for this. It will not break.”

“No,” she agreed through chattering teeth. “It will not break.”

But as crash after frightful crash shook the door, it seemed impossible that it would not give way. Rye
and Sonia clung together, listening to the squealing bellows of the beast. Both of them kept repeating that the door was strong, that the door would hold. Both of them secretly waited in terror for the sounds of splintering wood and tearing metal that would signal the end.

And then, suddenly, the attacks on the door ceased. Rye held his breath, his ears ringing in the silence. Then, through the walls, he heard scrabbling, scraping, and scuffling as the beast went slowly around the hut, nudging at the stones, looking for a weakness.

It circled the shelter once, twice, snorting and grumbling. Then, at last, he could hear it no more.

“It has gone,” Sonia breathed. With a sigh of relief, she slumped against the wall.

“It may not have gone far,” Rye said grimly. “We can only hope it finds other prey soon so it will forget about us. I do not like the idea of being trapped for more than a night in this smelly goat house.”

“Do not call it names,” Sonia joked feebly. “This shelter saved us. Finding it was a great piece of good fortune.”

It seemed more like a great piece of
bad
fortune to Rye. He was fairly sure that the horned beast kept watch on the hut because the hut often housed the goats it liked to eat. If he and Sonia had never come near the place, they might never have been attacked.

“It was the Fellan charm that brought us luck, no doubt,” Sonia went on. “The nine-powers charm.”

Rye had forgotten all about the charm. He put his hand up to the little bag hanging around his neck. His fingers tingled, and he snatched them away again.

It suddenly came to him that perhaps the charm had brought him bad luck because it was not rightfully his.

He seemed to see his mother and Dirk nodding seriously. He seemed to hear Sholto scoffing at the very idea.

He lifted the cord over his head. He slipped his thumb and two first fingers into the little bag and began to feel the objects jumbled inside it.

Something soft — a feather, he was sure of it. Something twisted in paper, like a pill or a sweet. Something hard and knobbly …

And suddenly, the tiny bag lit up like a lantern.

Rye yelled in shock and pulled his fingers out of the bag. The light went out.

“Oh!” Sonia cried in excitement. “A light! A magic light! Make it shine again!”

Not sure he was doing the wisest thing but far too curious not to try, Rye pushed his fingers back into the bag. Cautiously he groped for the knobbly object he had been holding when the light went on.

The moment he found it and grasped it between finger and thumb, the light appeared once more. Carefully, Rye drew the object out and held it up.

It was a crystal, no bigger than a honey bush berry, but shining more brightly than a lantern a
hundred times its size. Now that it was out of the bag, the light that beamed from it was strong enough to flood every corner of the hut.

It was strong enough to show Rye that he had been right. He and Sonia were not the first people to have taken shelter in the goat house.

Words had been scratched on many of the stones of the back wall. The scratches were new, sharp and clear, and every message was the same.

“Wonderful!” Rye heard Sonia sigh. He looked around and saw that she was gazing at the shining crystal in awe.

“Is it hot, Rye?” she asked eagerly.

Rye shook his head. He did not know what to think or how to feel. He could not share Sonia’s uncomplicated delight. The crystal
was
wonderful, but it was frightening, too. No thing so small should be so powerful. No ordinary boy of Weld should own it.

He looked down at the little bag.

Nine powers
, the Fellan Edelle had said.
Nine powers to aid you in your quest.

All the guilt that had plagued Rye in the pool clearing came rushing back. He glanced again at the despairing words scratched on the back wall
of the shed. Sonia had not noticed them, and he was glad of it. He wished he had never seen them himself.

Something was going to happen on Midsummer Eve. Something terrible, of which the barbarians themselves were afraid.

Edelle had known of it. That was why she had whispered to him, urging him to make haste.

The light crystal and whatever other wonders the little bag contained had been intended for someone who was going to try to stop the dread happening.

And here they were with him.

“I should not have taken this,” he muttered, gingerly prodding the bag with a fingertip. “I might just as well have stolen it.”

“What in Weld do you mean?” Sonia exclaimed. “The Fellan wanted you to have it.”

“They were wrong.” Rye shook his head. “I cannot keep it. It is too important. I must return it, and explain —”

“
Return
it?” Sonia exploded, sitting bolt upright. “Go back into the Fell Zone, when it has just taken us so long to get out?”

Rye set his lips stubbornly. He told himself that he had to do what was right, whatever the cost.

Sonia was eyeing him as if he had taken leave of his senses. “Rye, do you want to find your brother or not?” she demanded.

Rye glared at her.

“Then behave as if you do!” she snapped. “Thank
the Wall that magic has fallen into your hands, because in the days to come, you will certainly need it!”

It was like being dashed with icy water, full in the face. Shocked and sobered, Rye stared at the blazing crystal in his hand. He looked down at the little bag on his lap and thought of all the other amazing powers it might contain. Things, perhaps, that would help him find Dirk — save Dirk, who was in danger.

Was the unknown barbarian who had scratched the pleas on the back wall of the shelter more important to him than Dirk? Was his own honor more important to him than Dirk?

Rye knew that they were not. A cold, hard determination slid like a shield between his conscience and his need.

“Hold this,” he said, thrusting the crystal at Sonia and picking up the little bag. “I will see what else is here.”

But the instant the crystal left his fingers, its light went out. It shone again only when Rye took it back. In the end, he was forced to keep hold of it in one hand and search the bag with the other.

He began with his heart beating fast, but gradually puzzled disappointment took the place of excitement. The things remaining in the bag seemed very ordinary compared to the light crystal. He had expected wonders, but nothing astonishing happened as he held each object up before placing it on his knee with the others.

When he had finished, he and Sonia gazed at the motley collection in silence.

A red feather, slightly ragged around the edges. A shabby ring made of tightly braided gray threads. A tiny gold key. A little brown ball that looked like some sort of nut. A curiously patterned snail shell. The twist of waxed paper, which by its smell seemed to contain a stale honey sweet.

To Rye, the items looked like nothing more than the sorts of interesting but rubbishy treasures he used to collect in his pockets when he was young.

Telling himself that this could not be true, that any objects packed in a bag with the light crystal could not possibly be ordinary, he picked up the ring and slid it on. He waited self-consciously for something to happen — for Sonia to cry out that he had become invisible, for example, or for a feeling of superhuman strength to flow through him.

But he could feel no difference in himself, and the ring did nothing at all.

“All these things are magic,” Sonia murmured beside him. “I am sure they are. But what do they do?”

“We may never know, if they only show their powers when they are needed, as the light crystal did,” Rye said lightly, trying to hide how crestfallen he felt. “That is the trouble with stolen magic, I daresay.”

Sonia put her head on one side.

“You have found only seven things so far,
counting the crystal,” she pointed out. “Did the Fellan not tell you there were nine powers in all?”

Rye put his fingers back into the little bag and felt something small and flat wedged into one of the corners. He eased it out carefully.

It was a transparent disc, thin as paper and not much bigger than his thumbnail. As he held it up, it shone blue and green in the light.

“What is it?” Sonia leaned closer.

Rye shrugged uneasily. The strange disc had done nothing, but as he looked at its glimmering surface, a deep trembling began in the pit of his stomach.

“That still only makes eight,” Sonia said. “There must be something else. Look again!”

Rye shook his head. “There is nothing else.”

He pushed the disc back into the bag and instantly felt better.

“We will think about it again in the morning,” he said, scooping up all the other objects on his knee and returning them to the bag, too. “We should try to get some sleep. I only wish I still had that box of supplies I was given. I am starving.”

Sonia grinned. “I can do better than stale volunteers’ food.”

She untied the bag she carried at her waist and rummaged inside it.

“Here!” she said, pulling out some little bundles wrapped in red cloth. “I have dried bell tree fruit and
hoji nuts. I have cheese and honey. I have rice pastries, rolls, and sweet cakes. And a flask of amber tea.”

She met Rye’s startled gaze defiantly. “Yes, I stole them from the Keep kitchens. But will you reject them for that?”

Rye laughed and shook his head.

Gratefully they ate and drank. Then, yawning, they settled themselves for sleep. Rye put the light crystal back into the little drawstring bag, and once again, they were plunged into darkness.

Rye lay back on the straw, finding that despite everything he felt strangely content. His stomach was full. There was silence outside. Cool air blew softly through the tiny gaps between the stones of the walls.

“Ah,” he heard Sonia sigh. “How good it is to feel fresh night air! In Weld now, we would be sweltering in our beds.”

Sweltering and listening in dread to the skimmers, Rye added silently. He thought of his mother in the Keep — sad and alone, but safe at least.

“Yet here it is warm enough to be comfortable but cool enough to sleep,” Sonia was going on drowsily. “Who would guess it was almost Midsummer Eve?”

Rye stared up into darkness. Words scratched on stone seemed to dance in front of his stinging eyes.

R
ye slept heavily on his bed of straw. His sleep was filled with dreams of raging bonfires, of dark stone passages, of chains, weeping, and blood. And threading through the dreams like a repeating pattern were images of Dirk, face blackened and fists clenched, repeating over and over again: “Make haste! Time is short. It is almost Midsummer Eve.”

Rye woke with a start, a beam of sunlight shining straight into his eyes through a split in the roof. He sat up, confused and panic-stricken. How long had he slept? How much precious time had been lost?

Calling urgently to Sonia, he grabbed the bell tree stick and crawled to the door. His legs and back were aching. His skin itched, and his clothes were stiff with dried mud and slime. Feverishly he unbarred the door and pushed out into the light.

He staggered to his feet and took a few stumbling steps forward, his heart still pounding with the panic he had felt on waking. He stared dazedly over bumpy sunlit fields and distant hills, his eyes watering.

Everything looked shockingly bright. The sky above him was a great bowl of cloudless blue — dazzling and unnatural. Behind him, he heard Sonia calling sleepily from the shelter.

Then he heard another sound — a low, menacing sound. And it, too, was coming from somewhere behind him.

His heart seemed to stop. Slowly he looked back.

And there, looming from the side of the shelter, lumbering around the corner to hulk between Rye and the open doorway, was the horned beast.

The beast looked even more fearful in daylight. Its shaggy coat was matted with mud, burrs, and the dried blood of its kills. Its tiny eyes flamed with the hunger of its long hours of waiting. The single yellow-white horn, sharp as a blade, gleamed in the sun as the creature pawed the ground, its foaming jaws stretched into that hideous, grinning, blunt-toothed snarl.

Time seemed to stand still. Thoughts flew and tumbled over one another in Rye’s mind, flashing choices at him like a handful of playing cards thrown high into the air.

He could try to dodge around the shelter and get up onto the roof, but the beast was too close. It would be upon him before he could even begin to climb. If he
ran toward the road, the creature would certainly catch him before he even reached the flattened fence. If he turned and made for the open fields, he might last a little longer, but the result would be the same.

The fact was, the beast would easily catch him whichever way he ran. He had seen its speed. But run he must, as fast as he could, and not just to try to save himself.

Sonia was in the shelter. At the very least, he had to lead the beast as far away from her as he could, so she had the chance to shut and bar the door.

Rye glanced to his left, to the grove of trees. There was a low-branching tree at the edge nearest the road. He knew it was his best chance.

The beast lowered its head and charged.

Rye yelled, threw the stick wildly, and ran.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the beast wheel and come thundering after him. He could hear the creature’s grunting bellows and the pounding of its hooves already drawing closer, closer to his heels. The grove of trees seemed very far away.

Run faster
, he urged himself in terror.
Faster!

And then, suddenly, the low-branched tree was right in front of him. Suddenly he was flinging himself up onto the lowest branch, seizing a higher one with sweating, trembling hands, and climbing up, up….

How have I done this? he thought in confusion as he climbed. How did I outrun it?

The tree shook as the beast battered its trunk,
butting and tearing at it in fury. Rye wrapped his arms and legs around the branch he clung to, screwing his eyes shut, pressing his cheek against the rough bark.

Then there was a thud and a piercing squeal.

Rye opened his eyes and looked down.

The horned beast was lying at the foot of the tree. A metal spike was sticking out of its side. Its body jerked once, and was still.

“Got it!” a voice roared from the direction of the road.

Rye peered around the branch and blinked into the sun. A dark, chunky, child-sized figure in a green cap was standing just inside the flattened section of fence. The figure was lowering a glinting metal triangle that was plainly some sort of barbarian bow.

Behind the figure, pulled up in the middle of the road, was a bright green horse-drawn cart loaded with enormous bleating goats. Fixed to the cart’s side was a bold white sign.

Another figure, even smaller than the first and wearing a bunchy striped skirt, sat on the driver’s seat of the cart, punching the air with one hand and holding the horse’s reins with the other.

“Good shot, Dadda!” the figure in the cart cried, and at the same moment, Rye realized with a shock that the person at the fence was not a child at all but a very short man.

“Ho there!” the short man called, waving to Rye. “You can come down now!” He slung the weapon over his shoulder and began striding toward the tree.

Rye clung to his branch, staring in disbelief. Who were these people, who looked like sturdy children but carried weapons strong enough to slay monsters? And how rich, or how mad, must they be, to use a
horse
to draw their cart, while their giant goats rode?

“Rye!” The bell tree stick clutched in her hand, Sonia ran into Rye’s view and came to a skidding halt below him. She looked up, laughing with relief. “Rye, come down! The beast is dead!”

“Dead as a doorknob,” the short man agreed, joining her under the tree and nudging the fallen beast with the toe of his boot.

“How can we ever thank you, sir?” cried Sonia. And to Rye’s enormous surprise, she dropped a graceful curtsy, which looked very odd indeed in comparison with the mud-smeared rags she wore.

“Ah, say nothing of it!” the little man said, pulling off his green knitted cap and bowing magnificently.
“Magnus FitzFee at your service. Always glad to help a stranger in a fix. And I hate bloodhogs anyhow.”

Casually placing his foot on the dead beast’s shaggy side to brace himself, he began heaving at the spike jutting from the body.

“We come along, and there’s the boy running like a streak of lightning with the bloodhog after him, see,” he grunted, pulling at the spike with all his might. “And I say to Popsy, ‘Bless my heart,’ I say, ‘look at that! Did you ever see a fellow run that fast, even with a bloodhog after him?’ And Popsy, she says she never has.”

With a final, determined heave, he pulled the spike free. Its wicked barb and the lower half of its shaft were thick with dark blood. He crouched to wipe it on the grass.

“So then I say, ‘Well, he’s got to the tree, but that won’t do him much good if we don’t give him a hand, will it? Bloodhogs never give up, Popsy, as you know,’ I say. ‘That mean old specimen will have that tree down in the end. And then that champion young fleet-of-foot will be minced meat in two minutes flat.’”

Sonia smiled and nodded. High in his tree, Rye shuddered.

Having cleaned the spike to his satisfaction, Magnus FitzFee stood up.

“And Popsy says I’m dead right,” he went on, stowing the spike in a leather pouch he carried on his back. “So I stop the cart, and get my old crossbow
out from under the seat, and do the business. Nothing to it!”

He glanced up at Rye, clearly wondering why he was still in the tree.

“You all right up there?” he called politely.

“Yes, Rye, come
down
!” Sonia laughed.

It is all very well for her, Rye thought resentfully. He wanted very much to climb down. He had been trying to make himself begin for many long minutes. The trouble was, his limbs seemed to have frozen. Every time he looked down, his head swam. Never in his life had he been so high above the ground without a safety harness.

I got up here without a harness
, he told himself.
So I can get down.

He managed it at last, though his legs felt like water and his arms almost as bad. Magnus FitzFee watched the beginning of the ungainly descent, then discreetly turned his back to wave to his daughter on the cart.

“So you’re more of a runner than a climber, friend,” he said when he heard Rye sighing with relief as he finally reached the ground. “I’m the other way around, myself. Not built for running, but I can climb like a clink.”

“What is a clink?” Sonia asked without thinking.

FitzFee spun around. He gaped at Rye, then turned his startled gaze on Sonia. His eyes were blue as chips of sky in his brown face.

“And where would you two be from, that you don’t know what a clink is?” he demanded. “Why, there’d not be a house around here that doesn’t have a clink or two in the roof!”

There was a heavy silence. Rye saw Sonia’s face flush as red as her cap, and could feel the heat rising in his own cheeks and neck.

“We — we are not from around here,” he said awkwardly.

“No,” murmured Magnus FitzFee, looking keenly from one to the other. “No, I see you aren’t. I can’t think why I didn’t realize it before. That run …” He grimaced. “The bloodhog distracted me, I daresay. Well, well.”

“Dadda!” called the girl in the cart. “Dadda, come
on
!”

“One minute, Popsy!” FitzFee shouted over his shoulder. “Don’t you move, now!”

Rye glared at Sonia. She shrugged uncomfortably. They both made their faces expressionless as FitzFee turned back to them.

“Where are the rest of you?” he asked abruptly. “What are you doing here on your own?”

“We — got lost,” Sonia said.

“Lost?” FitzFee frowned and rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. “Lost …”

Again he looked over his shoulder, but this time, he seemed to be gazing past the road, to the tall trees of the Fell Zone. Quickly, almost furtively, he crossed his stubby fingers, and then his wrists.

Rye’s stomach lurched. FitzFee had guessed where they had come from! Did that mean he had stumbled across other Weld volunteers who had managed to escape the Fell Zone? It was quite possible, if he lived around here.

Sonia was frowning and gnawing her lip, her eyes fixed on the crossbow slung over the little man’s shoulder. Rye knew she was bitterly regretting the slip that had raised FitzFee’s suspicions. She feared that now they were in terrible danger.

Rye feared it, too. FitzFee had saved their lives, certainly. But that was before he began to suspect who they were. However friendly he seemed, he was still a barbarian — and the barbarians, one and all, were the savage enemies of Weld.

Somehow they had to convince FitzFee that his suspicions were wrong. They had to turn his thoughts away from the Fell Zone and the walled city hidden in its center.

I will say we are from another island, Rye thought feverishly. I will say our boat was wrecked on the shore of Dorne and that we have been wandering….

“Master FitzFee, we came here —” he began.

“Don’t say any more, friend,” FitzFee said gruffly, without turning his head. “I don’t want to know another thing about you, and what I do know I’m going to forget from now. These are dangerous times, and I’ve got my family to consider.”

He looked back at Rye and Sonia again. His face
was very serious, but his eyes had softened with what looked curiously like respectful pity. He thrust his cap at Rye.

“Put this on,” he ordered. “You can keep it — I’ve got plenty more. And let’s say no more about this business. As far as I’m concerned, you’re just a couple of ordinary, lost young travelers, see? How would a humble goat farmer know any different? You understand me?”

Speechless, they nodded.

“Very good!” FitzFee waited till Rye had put on the knitted cap and pulled it right down over his ears. Then he straightened his shoulders, thrust his hands into his pockets, and gazed up at the dazzling sky.

“Lovely morning, isn’t it?” he remarked, in quite a different tone. “So! What will you do now, young travelers? Can a humble goat farmer do anything more to help you?”

Rye took a chance. “You can help us to find our way home,” he said carefully. “Home … to Oltan.”