The Tree of Story (38 page)

Balor climbed back up the bank and the four rode back to the knoll.

“We were all offered the chance to leave here unharmed before the battle begins,” the Duke told the waiting assembly. “Even if our enemy honours his pledge, which is unlikely, it will only be a matter of time before this host appears at our own doorsteps. Even so, I present this viceroy’s offer as it was given, and I leave the choice to each of you to go now or stay and fight.”

There was much stirring through the ring of commanders, but no one spoke and no one moved forward, until at last one figure made his way through the crowd to stand before the others. It was the dwarf, Mimling Hammersong.

“I’ve been on quests and fought battles, likely nowhere near as many as the great lords among us, but I’ve learned one thing,” he said. “Those who fight, fight together. Those who run, run alone. I for one am not going to scuttle home and wait for the axe to fall.”

20

T
HEY HAD BECOME PREY
.

Finn crouched with Grath in the shelter of a huge tilted slab of rust-coloured rock. They had been walking for hours, until the walls of Adamant dropped away below the ridges and slag hills. They had skirted gaping cracks in the earth out of which scalding hot steam rose in hissing clouds. They had waded through pools of lead-coloured water and scrambled over heaps of shattered stone. The sun was high in the sky, though little of its light or heat penetrated through the smoky haze.

And then something that lived in this lifeless waste had picked up their scent and was now following them, though they could not see it. Grath had become aware of it first. He’d halted, listened and sniffed the air, then turned in a circle and said, “We’re being stalked. Keep your blade ready.”

Finn had not caught whatever sound or scent the mordog had picked up, but from time to time he thought he heard the soft clink of a stone being disturbed.

Grath had not increased his pace, though, but kept on at the same steady gait, and Finn was grateful for that. It had been hours since his last taste of the
gaal
. The throbbing pain in his arm had returned, worse than ever. His eyes burned and his head swam. He noticed his legs had begun to tremble, too, and he wondered how much longer he would be able to keep going before his body simply gave out.

Finally Grath had seemed to notice that he was in difficulty and called a halt. They had come to the foot of a huge tilted slab of stone. Finn dropped heavily to the ground. His face and clothing were drenched in sweat, and dark spots had begun to appear before his eyes. The mordog handed him a waterskin but remained standing himself to keep watch. Finn noticed there was no longer a pouch at the mordog’s belt.

“You’re not taking the
gaal
?” he asked.

The mordog glanced down at him with a crooked grin.

“Kern asked me to surrender my share. Thought it would be a waste since I was certain to die out here,” he said, then studied Finn more carefully. “You’re feeling the lack.”

“Aren’t you?”

“I’ve felt it every day since I joined your brother’s cause, but this is the worst.” He bared his teeth in a sour grin. “If they have any fever iron left at the fortress, I may be forced to kill someone for it.”

They had already agreed they would stay together until they reached Corr’s fortress at the far end of the valley, where a small contingent of Stormriders remained. There they hoped to find some shelter and rest, and then decide what to do next. Finn’s goal was to carry on south out of
the valley and come upon some place where he could bargain for a horse. If there was any chance he could make it even that far. Grath had yet to say what he planned to do beyond the fortress.

“How much farther?” Finn asked. He still had not been able to glimpse the fortress on its height through all the smoke and steam.

“Hours yet, by my reckoning. We won’t get there before nightfall at this rate.”

Finn heard the annoyance in his voice. “You should carry on, then,” he said. “I’ll only slow you down.”

The mordog laughed coldly.

“What does it matter?” Grath said. “I’ve already broken the most important rule for getting across the valley alive.”

“What’s that?”

Grath eyed Finn’s sling.

“Never come out here with a one-armed man.”

To his surprise Finn found himself laughing, too.

“I know what the doctor told you,” Grath went on. “That you’re little better than a walking corpse without the
gaal
. If I had any sense, I would go now and leave you here to be eaten by whatever’s been following us. I’m not going to do that, though.”

“Why not?”

“Because if you die, then there’s just me out here, and wherever I go I’ll be hunted either by my own people or by those who hate my people, and they are many. Even my fellow Stormriders at the fortress will likely stick my head on a pike when they find out I’ve deserted. No, Finn Madoc, you and I are proof that the cunning ones and the mordog don’t have to be at each other’s throats until the world ends. Maybe we’re the only ones who believe that, but still, it’s in my best interest to keep you alive as long as I can.”

Finn studied Grath’s face and then held out his hand, and the mordog helped him to his feet.

“Let’s go,” Finn said.

They struggled on, taking only brief rests, while the distant sun crawled down the sky, until they neared the edge of the largest and broadest chasm they had seen yet, at least fifty paces across. Its sheer sides dropped away into blackness and stretched away out of sight on either hand.

“I’ve seen this hole in the ground from the skyships,” Grath said. “I thought we were east enough to avoid it, but this place can fool even the best trackers.”

“So what do we do?”

“We go around it.”

Finn nodded, hoping the mordog wasn’t also wrong about the direction he had chosen. He took another sip from the waterskin, which was growing alarmingly light in his hand, he noticed. Then he followed where Grath led.

They were mostly climbing now, over a tumbled terrain of porous black rock that gave off heat as if it had been molten not long ago. Finn was soon gasping for breath. Grath seemed less affected by the heat and before long he was far ahead.

Then the mordog stopped and gestured urgently to him. Finn pushed himself on and when he reached the place Grath stood, he saw that just a few paces ahead the chasm narrowed to a thin crevice and came to an end. They would be able to cross now, but an even greater obstacle still lay ahead.

The far side of the chasm was higher than where they stood, and at this end it had grown to a sheer escarpment that they would have to scale if they wanted to proceed.

Finn gazed up at the rock face rising above them and then looked into himself and felt the death there, worming its way toward his heart. He would not make it to the top of this
wall. He would never see his friends in Fable again. He would not deliver the doctor’s journal to King Shakya.

Yet he had no choice but to try.

He stepped forward, except Grath’s arm shot out and barred his way.

“Listen,” the mordog hissed.

Finn froze. All he could hear was the chill wind that had blown at their backs all day.

“What is it?” he whispered.

The mordog didn’t reply. His head was raised and he was sniffing the air again. Finn gripped his sword hilt with his good hand and waited, and it was not long before Grath nudged him and said softly, “There,” nodding toward the way they had come.

There were three of them. Long, sleek things with skin the same reddish-black of the stones over which they were slinking. Finn studied them with a strangely calm interest, as if, like the doctor, he was observing creatures he had never seen before. He knew this wasn’t curiosity, though, only cold certainty about what would happen next.

The hunters were something like wolves, he thought, but with a catlike roll to their shoulder muscles and a supple grace in their every footfall. They had horns, too, that curved down from the spined ridge of their foreheads. Their eyes were black in their blood-red faces. Eyes that gave away nothing.

“
Slar,”
Grath muttered. “I thought there might be more than one.”

Finn had never heard the name before, but in Grath’s voice he heard something worse than fear: resignation. The creatures had spaced themselves far apart and were moving slowly and cautiously, but it was clear all three were headed toward Finn and Grath. The creatures had chosen
their moment well: the prey was trapped now, with a sheer wall at their backs.

Grath had his crude cleaver already in hand, but he took a moment to survey the terrain at their feet. Then he sprang onto a nearby boulder with a roughly flat surface and pulled Finn up after him. He tossed his sack at his feet and Finn did the same with his pack.

“Stay on my right,” Grath said. “They’ll have more trouble reaching us from that side.”

Finn nodded and raised his sword. It occurred to him suddenly that he no longer felt any pain. His wounded arm had gone numb, and even his other hand, the one in which he held the sword, barely had the strength to grip the hilt. He had nothing left to fight with, but still he raised the sword and watched while the creatures climbed steadily and unhurriedly toward them. One of the three
slar
, the one that had come closest so far and seemed to be the leader, was larger than the other two. Finn guessed that this was a mother and her two offspring, but that thought did not bring him any comfort or hope. Obviously all three knew what they were doing and had hunted together like this many times before.

“What are you thinking, my lovelies?” Grath whispered, and Finn realized he was talking to the
slar
. Trying to guess what they would do next.

Without warning the largest of the three burst into motion. She lunged toward the boulder on Grath’s side, a blur of rippling hide and muscle. The mordog crouched to meet her attack, but at the last instant the
slar
swerved, darting out of the reach of Grath’s blade. A feint, Finn realized, and he turned just in time to see one of the other two
slar
where it hadn’t been a moment before, impossibly close and coming at him, leaping, and he was too slow—

Grath’s blade swept down. There was a shriek and the
slar
fell limp at Finn’s feet. Grath gave the body a kick and it slithered down the side of the boulder, trailing a streak of bright blood.

The other two
slar
stood frozen a few paces away. They appeared to take no notice of the one that had fallen but kept their eyes fixed on their prey.

“You moved too soon, my beauties,” Grath taunted. “We’re not making it that easy for you.” He nudged Finn. “They’ll likely wait us out now. Night’s approaching. They’ll bide their time until we tire and drop our guard.”

Finn’s head was swimming, his breathing little more than a strained gasp. He felt his knees buckle and he clutched the mordog’s sleeve.

“Stay on your feet or we’re dead,” Grath growled, but his words seemed to come from very far away. Finn felt his fingers losing their grip on the hilt of his sword. He could see the
slar
advancing slowly once more. He thought of Will and Rowen, and Freya, and he wished them well, wherever they were.

Before his eyes was rough, pitted black stone. He had fallen. He could not see his sword. He heard Grath cry out, and then there was a roaring in his ears and a glare of white light that filled his head.

There was nothing else for a long time. Nothing but the roaring and the light, and a feeling that his body had become weightless and was drifting like a leaf blown about by the wind.

Then he was aware that the roaring had fallen to a murmur of air, rising, falling away and rising again. There was still a light in his eyes, but it was dimmer and it wavered. It was above him, a warm yellow light. It was coming from a lantern that was swinging on a hook. He fixed his gaze on
the light for a while, and then he became aware that the soft rising and falling of air was his own breathing.

He stirred. His body was solid again, heavy. Encased in something hard that weighed him down.