The Tree of Story (48 page)

With one last mighty heave, Hodge drove Flitch over the edge and followed after. They fell in each other’s clutches and the werefire swallowed them.

Pendrake crawled away from the edge. His head was bleeding and his limbs shook as he groped for his staff. But Brax was there now and he laid his hand on the staff and lifted it away from Pendrake’s reach.

“Well, Ammon,” he said. “It looks like you’ll have to finish me yourself after all.”

The green fire was in the mage’s eyes now. He gazed at the staff in his hand. Then he gave a cry of rage, and the fire flared from the staff and struck Pendrake, throwing him back violently into the corridor. But even as the Loremaster fell, the fire roared back along the staff and enveloped Brax himself.

As Pendrake lifted his head and watched, the mage was
engulfed in raging flames that took up his cry of terror with many voices screaming in agony and madness. He staggered back and the staff slipped from his hands and fell into the abyss. He clawed at himself now, frantic to push or tear the flames from his face and his arms. But now the fire was shooting out of his mouth and eyes.

And then there was only the fire, and in it many faces and shapes writhing and struggling as if for command. The roar of voices rose to a wail and then died away. The fire dimmed and sank. A few last scraps of it fluttered on the stones and then went out.

The stone chair fell with an echoing crash. The walls shook and great cracks appeared in the stone.

Pendrake climbed unsteadily to his feet. He looked over the edge and saw the fire subsiding, bleeding away into the dark corners of what remained of the toyshop below.

He turned and gazed at the remains of his workshop. Stooping with a groan of effort, he righted his chair and sat down heavily.

“I just need to rest a moment, Rowen,” he murmured between laboured breaths. “Just a moment. Then I’ll come and find you, I promise. I’ll bring you home.”

When the fetch host had turned against it, the Nightbane army had been thrown into upheaval. A surging sea of metal-clad figures flowed around the viceroy’s great iron carriage, trampling one another in their haste to escape the wall of metal they had suddenly found closing around them, and causing the beasts who drew the carriage to panic and run mad. The carriage was battered and rocked off balance until it crashed onto its side. Nightbane continued to mill and thrash against the barrier of the fetches, but as it became clear that the fetches were not going to attack, but merely contain them, the
remnant of the invading army lowered their weapons and stayed where they were.

Then a single arrow whizzed out from among the Nightbane; it arced through the smoke-filled sky and landed near the vanguard of the allied forces. There appeared to be a paper tied around the shaft. An Errantry trooper ran out, snatched up the arrow and brought it back to the allied commanders.

It wasn’t long before word spread that the invading army was asking for a truce and a laying down of arms.

But no one was rejoicing yet. There was a reek of blood and a stench of burning in the air. Ash floated down like grey snow. Stunned by the same vision Freya had seen, and by the unexpected victory that had followed, the defenders were slow to stir. Then the allied army began to come apart again as fighters from different lands found their countrymen and began the work of tending to their wounded and carrying away their dead. The dwarven folk of Stonesthrow Mine marched in a slow procession up the field, weeping as they carried the bodies of Mimling Hammersong and two of his brothers from the stream, where they had fallen in the first assault of the fetches.

While all of this was going on a strange rumour spread among the troops who had come with Balor from Fable. The boy Will Lightfoot had been seen on the hill at the edge of the battlefield. The boy everyone called the Pathfinder, who had come from the Untold to destroy the Night King and save them all.

“He travelled to a dark land to bring back some great magic,” exclaimed a trooper with utter certainty. “It was he who turned those fetches, not the mage, there’s no doubt of it.”

A girl was with the Pathfinder, some said, a girl with red hair whom few recognized. But the rumour came to Balor as
well, and when he heard it, he halted what he was doing and wiped tears from his eyes.

“You did it, lad,” he murmured. “You kept her safe and brought her home.”

Amid the wreckage of the skyship stood the golem, as still and unmoving as stone. Around him men were slowly gathering from various places on the field, their armour covered in dust and blood. Some were wounded and being helped by their companions. There were mordog among them; they glanced warily at the soldiers of the allied forces who were now approaching. When the Errantry troopers among them caught sight of the mordog, they drew their swords or gripped their spears and staves in readiness.

Balor shouldered his way through the crowd.

“Lower your weapons,” he said quietly.

Most obeyed him but not all.

Last to join the Stormriders were Finn and Corr Madoc. Corr gazed at the faces around him. He had his sword in his hand as well but tossed it to the ground and stood waiting. Finn, helped along by Grath, still wore the battered, cracked
gaal
armour. His sword arm was in a sling and he looked barely able to stand.

“Finn Madoc,” Balor said as he approached. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

Finn’s eyes met the wildman’s. He appeared to be struggling to speak, and then his knees buckled and Grath lowered him to the earth.

“What’s happened to him?” Balor cried.

“Are there any healers here?” Corr asked. “My brother doesn’t have long.”

“What about Doctor Alazar?” Balor asked. “Isn’t he with you?”

“The doctor is dead,” Corr said.

Balor stared.

“Dead? Alazar? No, that can’t be.” His face darkened. “Sky Lord, if you had anything to do with this—”

“I did, wildman,” Corr said. “The doctor died because of me. And I am sorry for it.”

The rage left Balor’s face as suddenly as it had appeared. His shoulders sank.

“Alazar,” he muttered, his eyes welling with tears. “Not you.”

The crowd parted again and Freya appeared. She was still carrying the ice blade, but there was much less of it now, so that it was more a long slender knife than a sword. Everyone stared as she approached Finn and knelt beside him.

“Finn,” she said. “Do you remember me?”

He glanced up, blinking, then his eyes widened.

“Freya,” he said. “How can you be here?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I can help you. Take the blade.”

Finn could no longer move his swollen arm. Freya had to place the sword in his hand. Slowly his stiffened fingers closed around the hilt. He looked at Freya with a puzzled expression, and then he gasped. His eyes filled with wonder.

“The pain is gone,” he said.

The sword was melting away more quickly now, but where its substance was going no one could say. They saw no water dripping onto the grass, but swiftly and steadily the ice diminished until it was nothing but a gleaming sliver in Finn’s palm. Then even this last tiny splinter seemed to sink into his flesh and was gone.

Finn tore away the sling and stretched out his arm.

“There’s feeling again in my fingers,” he said. “Freya, what was that? What did you give me?”

She placed her hand on his. Her hand was no longer cold and the warm light had come back into her eyes.

“That was the last of the dragon,” she said. “The last of Whitewing Stonegrinder.”

The troopers and knights of the Errantry had slowly gathered around the Stormriders. On Balor’s command weapons had been lowered, but still no one spoke. The only sound was the wind snapping banners and tugging at cloaks.

Then a young man stepped out from among the Errantry ranks. His head was bandaged and one eye was swollen shut. “Father,” he said. “It’s me.”

One of the older Stormriders moved forward. “Caleb,” he said. “My son.”

The Stormrider and the wounded Errantry soldier met in the space between the two armies and embraced. Soon many of the other Stormriders had found friends and relations among the Errantry ranks, and there were many tears and much laughter.

To Balor’s astonishment, Corr approached him, unbuckled his sword belt and let sword and scabbard fall to the earth. Then he bowed his head and knelt before the wildman.

“I have done terrible things,” he said in a strained voice. “Take my life now, for the life of your friend. For all the lives lost because of me. I only ask that you pardon my men and let all my Stormriders who are not Bournefolk—the mordog and those from other lands—leave in peace to return to their homes.”

Balor stared down at Corr, then glanced up at the crowd of Stormriders, most of who were now laying down their own weapons. He swallowed hard and cleared his throat.

“It’s not for me to decide any of that,” Balor said. “I’m like you now, Corr. I broke my oath and I’m no longer an officer of the Errantry.”

“You are, Balor Gruff,” a voice cried. “One of its finest.”

All heads turned. The Marshal, Lord Caliburn, was coming toward them, walking slowly with the support of two knight-apprentices. Captain Thorne followed behind, his head lowered as if in shame, though he darted anxious glances at the troops around him.

“I submit to your justice, my lord,” Corr said as Caliburn halted before him. “Take my life in payment for your son’s.”

“There will be justice, yes,” the Marshal said. “But not vengeance.”

He gestured to one of the knight-apprentices, a young woman, who handed him something bundled in grey cloth. The Marshal unwrapped the cloth, which they all saw now was a stained and faded apprentice’s cloak. Inside the cloak lay a sword belt, a short knife and an Errantry brooch, a white five-petaled flower. The Marshal drew out the knife.

“Rise, Corr Madoc,” he said.

Corr climbed to his feet. His eyes met the Marshal’s.

“This was my son’s knife,” the Marshal said. “He was wearing it the day he was taken from me. He was wearing this cloak, too, with this Errantry pin.”

Corr lowered his head. “I know I cannot be forgiven,” he said. “I have never forgiven myself. Do as you will.”

The Marshal took the knife by its blade and held it hilt-first toward Corr.

“No one can bring my son back to me,” the Marshal said. “But you are a son, as well, Corr Madoc. You had a father who was taken from you long before he should have been.”

Corr looked up, surprise and confusion in his face.

“You are a son without a father, and I am a father without a son. You will live in my house,” he said. “You will be my son.”

“My lord,” Captain Thorne said. “Are you certain you’re recovered from your illness? This man has caused much harm to the Errantry.”

Caliburn turned. “We all have much to answer for, Captain,” he said.

Thorne lowered his head.

“Take my son’s knife and his cloak, Corr Madoc,” Caliburn said. “Serve the Bourne and the Errantry with all your strength and heart.”

Corr stared at the Marshal. His eyes filled with tears and he fell to his knees before the old man, kissed his hand and began to tremble as sobs shook him. The Marshal placed his hand on Corr’s head, and after a while his shaking stopped. Then Corr rose again and took the knife and bowed.

“I have no right to call you Father,” he said. “But I will live in your house, and I will serve the people of the Bourne as your son did.”

The Marshal stayed to help direct the stretcher-bearers who had arrived to carry away the wounded, and a mount was brought to him and he rode to meet the allied commanders at the Duke’s pavilion. Captain Thorne returned to Fable with most of Balor’s Errantry troops. A few of the Stormriders went with them, to search for friends and family. Corr remained with his men for the time being, and Balor Gruff stayed as well, with Finn and Freya, as they had much to talk about.

Brannon Yates came to see them, to say goodbye.

“I’m going to find my mother and my sister,” he said. “If they still live.”

“You haven’t been in the city yet?” Corr asked, surprised. “You were here days before us.”

“I had to remember who I was first, like you, Corr,” Yates said. He turned to go and then paused. “Balor, I almost forgot. During the fighting I thought I saw you.”

“You did see me, Brannon,” the wildman said with a puzzled look. “I was there.”

“Yes, but the Balor I saw was older. With a grey beard. And there were others with him, like you.”

Balor climbed to his feet.

“You mean …” he breathed. “Where did you last see them?”

Yates pointed across the Course, and Balor took off at a near-run in that direction. He hadn’t gone far before he caught sight of a tall figure looking over the battlefield as if searching for someone. The figure was manlike, but when he turned in Balor’s direction his face could be described as resembling a cross between a lion and an angry pug dog. His long beard was iron grey, as were his bushy eyebrows. His dark eyes widened when they caught sight of Balor.

The wildman halted and then came forward more slowly.

“I was told there was another like us on this field today,” the older wildman said. “I didn’t believe it. There are so few of us left. I was just about to give up searching and take my people home.”

“I thought I was the last one,” Balor said with a catch in his voice. “I thought I was alone.”

“My brother and his wife had a boy child,” the older wildman said. “When our people fled the plague that came into our valley from the ghostlands, they died on the journey. The child was lost. In the forest, near—”

“The Fell of Thraws?”

“Yes. Twenty-seven summers ago.”

“That’s where the Errantry found me. They named me Balor Gruff.”

The older wildman nodded.

“Your name was Baikul,” he said in a strained voice, his eyes glittering. “I am your father’s older brother, Haggai. I never thought we would see you again. But our wisewoman said that if the wildfolk fought for this city, if we helped defend
it, a great treasure would be restored to us. She spoke truly. You are alone no longer, Balor Gruff.”