Shadowfell (12 page)

Mind-scraping was a scourge. Of all the terrors confronting the folk of Alban, it was the worst. And yet, Grandmother had told me, it was an ancient art, which once had been a power for good. I’d struggled to believe this. Long ago, she’d said, such work had been known as mind-mending. It had been a canny gift of unusual power, shared by only a handful of folk in Alban. As the years passed, fewer and fewer were born with the gift, and fewer and fewer learned the right use of it, until it was all but forgotten.

A mind-mender could lay hands on a sleeping person’s head and make a way into their thoughts; in this, the craft was no different from an Enthraller’s. But a mind-mender’s purpose was not to exercise control. It was to heal. A mind-mender could comfort the troubled and bring solace to the grieving. He could provide balm to the dying, hope to the despairing. A mind-mender’s gift would come in the form of healing dreams, for as short or long a time as they were needed. The sleeper did not remember these dreams, Grandmother said, but their power to set matters right was profound.

It became even harder for me to believe this when I saw Grandmother herself fall victim to the Enthrallers. That night showed me mind-scraping at its cruellest. I had known and loved my grandmother as a strong, wise old woman, the heart of our community. I had seen what was left of her afterward. If there was ever such a thing as mind-mending, it must have existed in a forgotten time, in a realm of light and goodness and courage. I wondered, later, if the story had been a fine imagining designed to comfort me. How mind-mending had become warped and debased into the evil art of mind-scraping, even Grandmother had been unable to explain. All she’d said was that Keldec used magic for his own ends, in his own way. I supposed that if even one mind-mender had still existed when he came to the throne, the king could have bribed or coerced that person into serving his ends. If so, that mind-mender’s spirit must surely be dark as the grave.

I walked on and the path became even steeper. The river valley was narrower here. The main track was still visible as a pale ribbon, and the Rush was a swirling pathway, now close to the foot of this hill where I walked. The light was starting to fade. I hoped the bridge was not too much further. A spasm overtook me and I stopped to cough, bent double on the perilous track. Gods, it hurt! When the fit was over I took a moment to adjust my pack, and in the quiet I heard footsteps behind me. My heart performed a panicky dance; cold sweat bathed my face. I made myself breathe.

The footsteps ceased. Not those of a man, I thought. Little, pattering steps.
Let it not be Sage and her friends
, I prayed.

I pressed on. My legs hurt, my back ached, my head was dizzy. My feet were losing the knack of finding safe spots to tread. Curse this weakness! I must get there in time. If I could cross the river, if I could reach the main track further up the valley, where there would be some cover, I had a chance of reaching Three Hags pass without being stopped. A burst of shivering ran through me; the wind was rising.
Don’t think about the bridge, Neryn. Don’t think about the dark, and the wind, and falling down
.

The path rose higher; the slope to my right became a cliff. Down below, the Rush roared between its banks as if desperate to break free. I crested a rise and teetered, for the path no longer skimmed the edge of the drop but sloped sharply down. And there, some distance ahead, was the bridge.

The Rush raced along the foot of the cliff. On the far side of the river stood an odd looming mass of rocks that put me in mind of Grandmother’s old tales about stone monsters that rose up in anger and crushed unwary passers-by. And spanning the gap between cliff and stony mound, a distance of some fifty paces, was a single log of wood. A veritable giant of a tree must have furnished this trunk, and I could not imagine who had moved it into place, or how it had been done. It was the work of ancient gods, maybe. The thing stood high above the raging river.

One step at a time, Neryn
, I told myself.
Get there first, then walk across and don’t look down
. Once over, I could camp for the night. Those old rocks looked full of chinks and crannies, and there were plants growing there, deep among the stones. I would join them.

The footsteps again, furtive, careful. ‘Don’t follow me,’ I said quietly. ‘It’s not safe.’

Someone shouted. A man’s voice, and now a man’s steps, booted feet closing in fast behind me. My heart leapt into my throat. I skidded and slithered and stumbled down the path, fixing my eyes on the dark line that was the bridge. One false step would send me tumbling into the icy waters of the Rush.

‘Down there!’ someone shouted. A second voice called, ‘Don’t lose sight of her!’
Run, Neryn!
I came up suddenly against a rock that projected out from the cliff face, almost blocking the path. ‘Stop!’ someone yelled, much closer now. I edged past the obstacle, my feet shuffling sideways on the path. I did not look back. I did not look down.

Twenty paces to the bridge. Mist was forming above the river; before me the pathway darkened. My feet slipped on the pebbles. I fought for balance, my heart thumping. Not far ahead, the pathway broadened. One end of the great log rested on this natural shelf; the other lay on the rocky hillock across the river. Below the bridge, far, far below, coursed the Rush.

‘You!’ The voice was right behind me, no more than ten paces away. ‘Hold still or I’ll put an arrow in your heart!’

CHAPTER SIX

‘R
UN, NERYN!’

Suddenly Sorrel was beside me, though where he had come from I did not know. Every twig on his body stuck out, as if he were a hedgehog raising its prickles in defence.

‘Quick!’ Sage’s voice; I would recognise it anywhere. Half-turning, I saw her little form, green-cloaked, and her fist brandishing a miniature staff as she took up a stance beside Sorrel. ‘Move, girl! Get over that bridge and don’t look back.’

I ran. Five paces, ten paces, and I was at the bridge. Three stone steps led to the great log. As I climbed them an eldritch light flashed behind me, and a man let fly a string of startled oaths. A moment later a bowstring twanged. There was a grunt of pain. I turned my head.

‘Neryn, don’t look back!’

Sage’s command was not to be ignored. I moved out onto the log, while behind me light flickered, weapons clashed, men shouted and cursed. I was about six paces out along the bridge when there was a metallic clanking noise, followed by an uncanny drawn-out screech of pain. Sorrel. Oh gods, Sorrel. I looked back.

They were on the ledge. One man had Sorrel in his grip, held by something around the little creature’s neck. A chain. An iron chain. Sorrel was writhing in pain, his leafy hands clawing at the metal. His screams pierced through me. I took an instinctive step toward him, then halted.

Sage had stationed herself at the end of the bridge, staff in hands, a stalwart small figure keeping the warriors at bay. A stream of fire issued from the tip of her weapon, and while she stood there, the two warriors could neither step onto the bridge nor stop me with an arrow. She was protecting me, winning me safe passage across. While she guarded my way, she could not help her friend. Cold iron is the true enemy of the Good Folk. It burns them as no fire can do.

With tears blinding my eyes, I turned my back and fled over the bridge. I did not look down. My feet moved by instinct alone. I ran as I had never run before, the terrible screaming filling my mind. I ran until I was almost at the end of the bridge. Then I could run no more, for a huge dark figure was on the log before me, blocking my path, an apparition of shadows and mist, elusive, shifting. From deep within that smoky mass a pair of inimical eyes glared out, sizing me up.

The being spoke. ‘Wha dares set foot on Brollachan Brig?’

My voice was the squeak of a fieldmouse in the wildcat’s path. ‘Neryn. I am a friend, and I wish you no harm. Please let me pass.’

‘Whaur’s ma fee?’ The body swirled and swayed, and I felt myself swaying with it, this way, that way over the chasm.

There is always something you can give
. Bread. Cheese. Clothing. A flint. None seemed likely. A kiss? A promise? Both seemed perilous. Should I offer to solve a riddle? No, that way lay disaster. My heart hammered. My throat went dry.

‘WHAUR’S MA FEE?’ Within those shadows I could make out a massive form, lantern-jawed, with fists the size of platters. It was clad in a tattered black garment, and in place of sword or dagger, its broad studded belt held an assortment of sharpened bones. Its mouth gaped open, revealing rows of pointed teeth.

How about the truth?
I’m tired, I’m cold, I think two friends just died so that I could cross your bridge
. Did the brollachan, if that was what it was, have any compassion? I looked into its eyes and in my mind I heard Sage’s voice, clear and strong.
Don’t bear Sorrel’s hurt on your own shoulders, lassie. We’re all children of Alban
.

‘Tell me the fee and I’ll pay it if I can.’ I straightened my shoulders, trying not to wobble too far to one side or the other. The wood was slippery under my feet.

‘Aye, weel, that depends. Ye could dance a jig, mebbe.’ The brollachan began a dance of its own, swinging its massive fists, kicking out with its heavy feet. In a moment it would sweep me bodily off the bridge. Behind us, at the far end, the light from Sage’s staff had gone out and all was silence.

‘Please,’ I gasped, ducking a sweep of the creature’s arm, ‘I’m not very good at dancing, as you can see. Is there some other way I can pay – cooking supper, or . . . or answering a question, or . . . singing a song?’

‘A sang, ye say?’ The brollachan was suddenly still. I snatched a breath, my chest aching. Foolish suggestion. My whole body was trembling. I had hardly enough breath left to squeeze out a couple of pathetic notes. ‘And what sang might that be?’

I grasped for anything I could remember about brollachans. They lived alone. They were morose in temperament and quick to anger. Mostly, they lived in the far north. This one had strayed a long way from home.

‘A song that will give you heart,’ I said. ‘A song to lift your spirits.’

‘There’s nobbut ane sang pleases me.’

‘And what song is that?’ Perhaps I could do this after all. If I could keep my balance long enough. I made the mistake of glancing down and caught a glimpse of the river, a narrow ribbon far below. I teetered, stretching out my arms.

‘Ah –’ The brollachan raised its hands, palms up, in a gesture curiously human. Its knobby fingers were anything but human, tipped as they were with long yellow nails. ‘’Tis an auld, auld thing. A wee scribbet like you wouldna ken the tune.’

‘Try me,’ I said.

‘No’ sae fast. A lassie doesna cross Brollachan Brig sae easy.’

‘What would you have me do?’ My head felt strange, as if I were about to faint.

‘A game o’ catch. Here!’

Before I could draw breath, something left the creature’s hand to come hurtling toward me. I caught it. A ball. A furry ball that squirmed in my hands, uncurling part way to show four neat paws, a triangular nose, a pair of gleaming eyes.

‘Dinna drop him,’ said the brollachan. ‘Your turn to throw, dinna dawdle!’

I threw. The little creature sailed through the air, and I prayed I had not tossed it to its death. A pair of huge hands emerged from the misty strangeness of the brollachan’s body and caught it. In an instant it was in flight again, higher this time, so I had to go on tiptoe and stretch up my arms to grab it. It squealed and bit me, and I nearly dropped it. My body was drenched in the cold sweat of sheer terror. I would not plead for mercy. If the brollachan wanted a game, I would give him one. ‘Sorry,’ I murmured, then hurled the creature back at him as hard as I could.

‘Guid toss!’ He sent it back to me at ankle level and moving fast. I bent, grabbed it, and lost my balance. Time seemed to slow, letting me feel the moment I knew I had tipped over too far to recover: my churning stomach: the black spots dancing before my eyes: the knowledge that my life had been pointless, every wretched, sorrowful moment of it . . .

A hand fastened around my ankle, and I was dangling head down above the void, swinging from side to side, with my cloak and bag hanging below me and the little creature still clutched in my hands. My heart was in my throat. The river shone up at me, as if to say,
Next time, Neryn
.

‘Oops,’ said the brollachan, hauling me back onto the bridge and flipping me upright. ‘We canna hae that. Not before ye sing the sang. Come ower, then. Ye’ve a guid hand wi’ the pookie, though ye could do wi’ a better grip on your wee slippers.’

It backed along the bridge and I moved forward. The light was fading fast. As we neared the rocky hillock at the far end, the brollachan began to shed its garment of mist and strangeness, becoming more solid in form. By the time I stepped off the bridge, every part of me shaking, the being before me was discernible as a man-shaped entity, though this would be a man rough-hewn, and bigger than the tallest, broadest warrior I had ever seen. It towered over me.

I set down the creature we had used as a ball. It was something akin to a cat, but its tail was as thin as a rat’s and hairless, its ears were huge and its eyes were round and strange. It sat up and began to wash its face with a paw, apparently none the worse for wear.

‘Ye’re ower,’ the brollachan said. ‘I’ll hae the sang now.’

Accompanied by the rushing of the river and the cries of birds overhead as they winged for shelter, my voice rose, fragile and shaky.

‘
I am a child of Alban’s earth . . .’

‘Ahhh,’ sighed the brollachan. I’d guessed right. The old forbidden song was indeed the one it had wanted. It stood still as stone while I pressed on through one verse, two verses, three, praying that I could stay on my feet until the end. My head was feeling quite odd.

I reached ‘
I am the mountain, I am the sky
’ before I faltered. I was bone weary. I simply could not remember the words. My mind was full of Sage and Sorrel, almost certainly lying dead on the other side of the bridge. Perhaps Red Cap had been killed before they even reached me. What about the baby? Perhaps Mara, who had made a choice to take me in, and poor innocent Garret were even now being interrogated by the Enforcers. I deserved to be thrown down into the river for the hurt I seemed to cause folk whenever they tried to help me.