The Shadow at the Gate (70 page)

A little gray cat with brilliant blue eyes appeared in the open window at the ground floor of the old, three-story house just down the street from the Goose and Gold Inn. There seemed to be blood on the cat’s muzzle. It jumped down to the ground. Another cat appeared in the window and followed it. And then another and another. A whole stream of cats jumped out of the window and vanished away into the night. The little gray cat remained standing in the alley below the window until all the rest of the cats had disappeared. Then, the cat strolled away, tail held high. The rain washed away the blood from the cat’s muzzle. By the time it reached the end of the street, the cat was decidedly wet. Wet, but clean as well.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

ON THE TRAIL OF GIVERNY FARROW

They made camp that evening, long after the sun had set and the moon had risen to survey the dark plain with her mournful eye. Declan was all for pushing on into the night, but the hawk would have none of it.

“Jute’s about to fall asleep on his feet,” said the hawk. “We’ll make camp here. This spot is as good as any other on this blasted plain.”

Declan reluctantly agreed, and the hawk, attempting to be fair despite being in a foul mood, pointed out that even a Farrow would have difficulty keeping to a trail in the dead of night.

“Might I add,” said the ghost, “that I’m feeling tired myself. These old bones aren’t what they used to be.”

“Ghosts don’t get tired,” said Declan.

“It’s a choice,” said the ghost primly.

They ate a cold supper of stale bread and sausage. Then, wrapped in their cloaks, they lay down in the blowing grasses. The last thing Jute heard before he fell asleep was the ghost muttering about books and ogres.

The next day dawned with a chill, leaden light. The sun rose like a silver disk that had more in common with the night and the moon than daylight.

“Bah,” said the hawk. “This is no sky for flying. Even a butterfly would fall to earth today.” But despite these words, the hawk took to the air in slow strokes of his wings, as if he had to feel his way up through the currents and winds onto the safety of higher ground.

Halfway through the morning they found the bodies. The hawk fell out of the sky and Jute could hear the wind whistling through his wings. He settled onto the boy’s shoulder and stared ahead.

“What is it?” said Jute.

The hawk would not answer, but Jute could feel the bird’s claws trembling as they gripped his shoulder. Declan called out from far ahead. Jute ran to him and found himself looking down a slope. He caught his breath. On the plain below them lay dark shapes. The bodies of men and horses and beasts. And what looked like enormous dogs.

“Wolves,” said Declan. “Mountain wolves.”

“Nonsense,” said the ghost. “This is a plain. Do you see any mountains nearby?”

“Stay behind me, Jute,” said Declan. “Don’t step where I haven’t stepped.”

The ground was trampled, the grass torn, revealing the earth in dark brown gashes. Everywhere there were dark stains of blood. Flies buzzed in the grass and on the silent shapes of the dead.

“I don’t recognize this armor,” said Declan. He spoke softly, as if he thought his voice would wake the dead from their sleep. “Few fight with spears like these. The soldiers of Harth sometimes do, but these faces aren’t from the desert land.”

“There are more men and horses dead than wolves, aren’t there?” said Jute. He did not like the look of the wolves. They were nearly half the size of a full-grown horse, and their jaws looked large enough to engulf his head in one bite.

“I wish I’d been here.” Declan shook his head. “I’ll bless and curse these wolves all my days, for their fangs did my job. They killed well. But the dead men here are only soldiers and there’s surely more to this evil than them.”

“Aye,” said the hawk. “There’s much more to this place than dead men and wolves. The earth is full of sorrow here. Something very odd happened here. I think—” But the hawk abruptly shut his beak and would not finish whatever it was that he was about to say. Jute marveled at the hawk’s eyes. He was not sure, but it seemed as if there was fear in them.

“I can’t track sorrow, master hawk,” said Declan. He paced the ground slowly, his head down. “But I can track most anything else. Several men on horseback fled this place. Three at most. Three horses running weary. They’d been running long before the wolves attacked them. And here, look here. This is peculiar. The wolves weren’t alone. They had companions. This one horse, whose tracks I noted before and, I think, a young man or a woman. I’m not certain which. Whoever it was didn’t weigh much, for the prints are light and already the grass is springing back up. But this is strange. See here?”

“I find nothing strange about any of this except for one thing,” said the ghost. “Where are the ghosts? I died from choking on a bit of beef, or was it because of a spell gone wrong? I can't remember. At any rate, I ended up a ghost drifting about the Stone Tower for hundreds of years. It’s not fair.”

“You see?” Declan knelt down in the grass. “That one person stood here and fought for some time, for the bodies of the soldiers lie thickly around. They tried to overwhelm him but they couldn’t prevail. And here. . .”

His voice trailed away into silence.

“What is it?” said the hawk.

“Here he fell,” said Declan slowly. “But his body is gone. Perhaps he was only wounded, or perhaps the wolves bore him away? That makes no sense.” His voice sharpened. “I’ve found her!”

To Jute’s eye, Declan had found nothing. The grass was trampled and bloodstained. Bodies lay like trees felled by a storm and around them were scattered their shattered branches: swords and spears and arrows. It was a horrible confusion, and he could see none of the tracks apparent to Declan. Jute picked up an arrow and frowned at it.

 
“How do you know you’ve found her?” said Jute. “How can you tell from this? One footprint’s just as good as another.”

“Footprints are as different as faces,” said Declan. “This one’s small and narrow and barely indents the grass. A girl’s foot of slight weight, carrying no weapons or armor. The stride is about what I’d expect of someone roughly your height. Giverny would be not much older than you this year.”

“I once knew a girl named Giverny,” said the ghost.

Jute suspected the ghost said this more to have something to say, rather than because it was true. But, with ghosts, saying something is halfway to believing the thing to be true, and the ghost embarked on a story about a girl named Giverny whose father had a peach orchard in Vomaro.

“This can only end badly,” said the hawk.

“Nonsense,” said the ghost. “I haven’t gotten to the best parts yet. If you must know the end before we get there, she married the third son of a minor lord and lived happily ever after. They had five children.”

“Quiet! I wasn’t talking to you, you wisp of vapid vapor!”

“You needn’t be so rude,” said the ghost. And with that, it vanished.

“Aha,” said the hawk. “The pest is gone. An unanticipated but happy circumstance. At least there’s one bright spot in this wretched day.”

“I haven’t gone far,” came the ghost’s voice. “I’m merely taking a nap in Jute’s knapsack. Ha ha! Do you get it? I have an excellent sense of humor. By the way, this knapsack smells of cheese and something else that’s whiffy in a thought-provoking way. Dried fish?”

“Look at this!” said Jute.

He had been wandering about, trying to find a sword small and light enough for him to carry. He was envious of Declan’s sword and thought it high time he had one of his own. After all, they might find themselves in a fight for their lives or some other dreadful situation. It wouldn’t do to be unprepared. The others came around and looked at what Jute had found. A dagger lay on the ground. It was a plain thing, with a sharp and serviceable blade. In the hilt, however, was a stone. A dull, cracked stone. Jute knelt down beside the dagger. The hawk alighted on the ground beside him.

“The stone,” said Jute. “Look at that stone. It looks exactly like the one in the knife I stole. There’s blood on the blade. Do you think. . . ?” His voice trailed off into silence

“I think,” said the hawk, his voice oddly shaky, “that this is just a worthless old blade now.”

“Come, we should be on our way,” said Declan, frowning, looking at both of them and wondering.

They set off. Both Jute and the hawk were silent for a long time. Declan ranged far ahead of them. The wind blew the scent of grass and rain into their faces and Jute breathed deep. It was good to be away from the dead bodies. He quickened his pace to catch up with Declan, but the man had stopped about a hundred yards in front of them. When Jute came to him, he was staring down at the ground.

“This,” he said, “I don’t understand.”

“What don’t you understand?” said the hawk. “This is a bad day, doubly bad. That’s what I understand. Worse than you could ever imagine.” And the bird’s claws tensed again on Jute’s shoulder, clutching in agitation.

“She’s not alone.”

“What?” said the hawk.

“Giverny. My sister. She’s not alone.”

“What do you mean? Who’s with her?”

“A wolf. They’re walking side by side.”

They all thought about this in silence for a moment, though the ghost made noises in Jute’s knapsack as if it were clearing its throat in preparation for a long speech. But perhaps the ghost then thought better of this, for it said nothing.

“A wolf with the girl,” said the hawk. “A wolf? Now, why would that be? Why on earth?” The bird abruptly shut his beak with a click.

“What would she be doing with a wolf?” said Declan in bewilderment.

“Wolves are strange beasts,” said the ghost. “There’s no telling for their tastes. I once heard a tale of a crofter family who lived high in the foothills of the Morn Mountains. Bandits murdered them all save a child of not even one year of age. The tale said that wolves found the child and raised him as their own.”

“I doubt this is a similar circumstance.”

“There’s no way to know for sure,” said the hawk, rousing from silence. “But we’re wasting time. The wolf isn’t harming your sister, no? They’re walking together. No need to bother wondering why for now. If we’re going to find your sister, then let’s do it, and do it quickly.”

Declan needed no more encouragement than this and did not question the hawk about his sudden enthusiasm, other than giving him one startled glance. He walked along at a loping stride that forced Jute to run along behind him.

I don’t understand
, said Jute inside his mind to the hawk.
One moment you’re growling about going to Harlech and the next moment you say we must hurry south to find this girl.

Precisely
, said the hawk.
Find the girl and then hurry off to Harlech as fast as we can.

Does this have something to do with that dagger I found?

Perhaps.
The hawk’s voice was reluctant.

Jute stopped walking. “What do you mean?”

“What I mean,” said the hawk out loud, “is that you need to hurry and catch up with Declan. You’re far behind as it is.”

“Not until you tell me.”

“Tell you what?” said the ghost, popping out of Jute’s knapsack. “Whatever it is, I need to know.”

“What’s going on?” called Declan. He strode back to them. “Are you arguing about flying again? I’m sure there’ll be plenty of time for that later. Come on. I don’t want to lose a minute of daylight.”

“We’re not arguing about flying,” said Jute. “Hawk won’t explain about your sister and the dagger I found. He knows something and he won’t tell.”

“Very rude of him,” said the ghost.

“It’s not that I won’t explain,” said the hawk stiffly. “I’m just, well, I’m still thinking about it. I’m considering. It’s not always best to blurt out everything that crosses one’s mind. Like some people I know.” Here, the bird shot a dirty look at the ghost.

“At least I’m honest,” said the ghost.

“If it has something to do with my sister,” said Declan, “then I have a right to know.”

“She’s not just your sister anymore,” snapped the hawk.

There was a moment of silence at this. Even the ghost looked shocked by what the hawk had said.

“What did you say?” said Declan quietly.

“I, uh, well. . . ” The hawk looked at the man and hunched his head down into his feathers. “I don’t even want to say it out loud. I thought something dreadful had happened yesterday, I thought I heard something in the wind, but I dismissed it. I didn’t want to think about it. I didn’t want to contemplate the possibility.”

“What do you mean?” said Jute “Stop talking in circles.”

The hawk heaved a sigh. He was silent for a moment, but then he spoke, slowly and reluctantly. “The earth died yesterday. At that battlefield we found. She died there.”

“You mean the lady who—the lady who rescued me in the regent’s castle?” An ache and a darkness seemed to open up in Jute’s stomach. He could still see her face. The way she had kissed his brow. “She’s dead?”