The Tree of Story (8 page)

When he saw Finn, Corr’s lined, weathered face buckled with gladness and relief. He beckoned his brother over and stiffly put his arms around him. For the first time since he’d discovered the Sky Lord was his brother, Finn saw that Corr was moved by something other than anger or reckless resolve. For a moment it was just the two of them and all else was forgotten.

“Thank the powers you’re all right, brother,” Corr said. “The doctor told you …?”

Up close Finn could see the terrible blisters on Corr’s face and neck. He should have been in agony, but of course he was taking the
gaal
powder. At last Finn could understand how his brother was able to shrug off such terrible punishment to the body.

As Corr pulled away, Finn looked more closely at the strange armour his brother was wearing.

“We’ve discovered the fetches aren’t indestructible,” Corr
said, noticing his glance. “We broke two of them open with the lightning. Once the fetches inside had fled we were able to salvage enough of the armour to make one complete suit.”

“You’re wearing
fetch armour
?”

“That’s one of the lessons of your beloved Errantry, isn’t it? In battle you always have two weapons at your disposal: yours and your enemy’s. The metal is amazingly light, and there’s so much
gaal
in the alloy one no longer needs to consume the fever iron powder.”

“Corr, this is
his
armour. He commands the fetches with it.”

“His will may be strong enough to control those mindless wraiths, but his realm is far away and here
my
will is stronger. I’ve tried the suit now and it’s safe. I want you to have it. It can help you.”

“Many of your people died at the breach,” Finn said, ignoring Corr’s offer. “Our people. Bournefolk. We would have been overwhelmed if the Nightbane hadn’t retreated.”

“They didn’t retreat,” Corr said. “Not exactly. Kern was in the observation skiff. He saw it all.”

The lieutenant nodded. Kern was a small man with the quiet, self-effacing manner of a clerk. He had seemed to Finn out of place among the frenzied, battle-hungry Stormriders, yet he had a pouch of
gaal
on his belt like everyone else. Something else he carried was a small book and a pencil, with which he always seemed to be taking notes.

“The host broke into three at the bottom of the slope,” Kern said in an expressionless voice, as if reading out a list of supplies. “The smallest group fled back across the valley to Adamant. The other two, at least a thousand in each, marched to the east and west of us. They climbed the valley walls again, on either side of the fortress, and headed south.”

“They passed the fortress as if we weren’t even here,” Corr said.

“That’s because they don’t care about the fortress, Corr,” Finn said. “The Nightbane are leaving the valley to join the fetches. They’re all marching to the Bourne. Will Lightfoot was telling the truth. They’re marching to destroy Fable.”

Corr exchanged a glance with Kern.

“You still believe the boy’s wild story,” Corr said to Finn. “That a host of armoured fetches and an entire army of Nightbane are needed to conquer one insignificant little town in the middle of nowhere.”

“Malabron is moving quickly now, Corr—sooner maybe than even he had planned—because of something that’s happened in Fable. I don’t know what it is, but I believe Will. Your Stormriders, the Ironwise, this fortress—none of that matters to him anymore, if it ever really did. Probably the dwarf city doesn’t, either, now that his fetch army is built. Malabron has staked it all on taking Fable. His forces will crush everything in their path, and then the Bourne will be another dead land, like this one.”

He gestured at the map and pain shot through his arm and side. The fever iron that Alazar had given him was wearing off already, he guessed. For a while it had swept aside the fear he’d felt for his friends, but that fear was still there.

There was a map spread out on the chart table and Corr studied it now. He ran his fingers across its rough parchment and he seemed to be weighing what he’d heard. Then he looked up at Kern.

“Take out the skiff,” he said. “Make another sweep. Confirm the Nightbane are still on the march, that they haven’t stopped or circled back.”

“Sir, the scouts just reported in,” Kern said quietly, glancing at his little book. “The Nightbane are almost two days’ march away and still heading south. There’s no need to take the skiff out again so soon.”

“Take it out,” Corr growled. “Go yourself this time.”

Kern nodded, tucked away his book and slipped from the room. Before Finn could speak to his brother again, Nonn, the Ironwise chieftain, appeared at Corr’s side.

“My lord,” the old dwarf said in his deep, gravelly voice, “the siege has depleted both our numbers and what stores of the
gaal
still remain to us. You know this. Even if you went after the fetches, how far would the ships get and what could they do? Our only hope lies across the valley. If Adamant has truly been abandoned by the Nightbane, then this is the time to launch an assault and take it back. What does it matter where the enemy has gone? We will not get another chance like this.”

Corr’s finger stopped at the black circle on the map that represented Adamant.

“Without the
gaal
, my lord,” Nonn went on, “your men will not fight and the ships will not fly.”

And without it I will die or lose my arm
, Finn thought.

“We need to make sure about those dragons first,” Corr said. “We’ve spoken of this already.”

“There have been no dragon sightings since well before dawn,” Nonn said. “We think all the motherworms may already be dead or driven off. And there can only be a small force left at the city, if any at all. My smiths have nearly finished repairing and equipping the remaining skyships. Give the word, my lord.”

Finn gripped his brother’s arm.

“Corr, you must listen,” he said. “Even if Will and Balor made it home already and brought a warning, the Errantry will have no chance against the fetches and the Nightbane. Maybe we can’t stop them, but we can slow them down. We can put ourselves in their way and give our people more time.”

Corr looked down at his brother’s hand on his sleeve. He placed his own scarred hand on Finn’s.

“You mustn’t strain yourself, brother,” he said. Then he faced Nonn. “Can your smiths have the ships ready within the hour?”

The Ironwise chieftain turned to one of his people, a scarred and wizened old dwarf even more ancient looking than Nonn.

“Have the repairs been completed?”

“Almost, my lord. There are only a few calibrations left to be—”

“Get it done,” Nonn barked, then he turned back to Corr. “The ships will be ready, my lord, but there isn’t enough
gaal
left to take the fleet all the way south to your homeland. You know this.”

“We’re not going to Fable,” Corr said. “We’ll be sailing for Adamant. We will recapture your city, Nonn, and once we have the mines we will build a hundred skyships and nothing in this world will stop us, not even fetches in armour.”

“No indeed, my lord,” Nonn said, his wizened face breaking into the first smile Finn had ever seen from the dwarf chieftain.

Finn turned away. He looked out the observation platform, but all that could be seen now was a curtain of roiling smoke. Fable was so far away and he was bound now to the same deadly metal that held his brother in its grip. If he refused the
gaal
, he would die. But it would surely kill him, and probably all too soon. Either way he had failed his friends. He could no longer help them.

“We must save ourselves first, Finn,” Corr said behind him. “We’re of no use to anyone else otherwise. Get some rest. I’ll send for you when the city has been taken, and then we’ll talk again about the Bourne.”

Finn faced his brother. He looked at Corr’s scars and terrible burns, and it seemed to him he was looking at a
truer map of the Valley of Fire than the one spread out on the table.

“I’m going with you to Adamant, Corr,” he said at last. “After all, I’m a Stormrider now.”

4

T
HE NEWS BROUGHT BY
the Red Duke of Tintamarre—that Nightbane were massing north of the Bourne—had spread quickly through Fable and the surrounding towns and villages. Riders of the Errantry hurried through the countryside, sounding the alarm and urging all inhabitants to leave their homes. By the evening of that day the high road was filled with a steady stream of wagons, carts and people on foot.

Many sought refuge in Fable, which was already crowded with fleeing Storyfolk from other lands. All too soon Lord Caliburn, the Marshal, was forced to close the gates to all newcomers. There were angry words, and some folk who had been shut outside came to blows with the sentries. A few who had been turned away set up camp on the hillside and in the woods around the city, while most headed back on the road for the towns to the south.

At the same time, more armed companies had begun to arrive. The larger forces were preceded by heralds, who sought permission in the name of their commanders to join the defence. Other, smaller bands of armed men came, as well, many of them makeshift companies of those who had joined in common cause after the Nightbane had overrun their homelands.

The Course began to fill with more and more tents and pavilions, and the people of Fable, who were used to solitary travellers from strange lands, saw the greatest gathering of Storyfolk that anyone had ever witnessed. And each arriving band or troop or handful of armed men had a strange tale to tell of what had brought them here.

Not all who came to Fable were soldiers or warriors. Some were farmers and villagers who were tired of running and hiding and wanted to make a stand. Others were folk whom the people of Fable would never have thought of as allies. There were unwelcome, even alarming faces among the new arrivals: hulking troll-men from the distant Bonelands, midnight hags, masked nomads of the Sand Sea, and the strange, unsettling people with sea-green skin and eyes like those of cats who were known only as the Otherfolk. All had come at great risk, for when they met scouting parties of the Errantry, they had been challenged and even attacked. But they all lay down their weapons and offered no resistance. They explained that this was as much their realm as anyone’s and they had come to help defend it.

Late that evening, Lord Caliburn and the Mayor of Fable, Dame Oreande, left the city to join a council of the leaders of the still-assembling forces. The gathering was held in the great ivory-and-gold pavilion of the Red Duke, which had been chosen as the command post for the new and growing army. The captains and commanders assembled in the lantern
light under the gently stirring silks of the pavilion, and many glances of surprise and suspicion went back and forth as the new allies got their first close look at one another. Some recognized those who had once been enemies, while others saw strange, outlandish faces and stared rudely or looked away in disdain. The mood in the pavilion was tense and threatening to worsen, when the Duke stepped into the middle of the crowd and raised his hand for quiet.

The Red Duke of Tintamarre was an elderly but still powerful-looking man, with a mane of snow-white hair and a trim white beard. His cloak was a huge bearskin clasped at the neck with a silver chain, the thick reddish-brown fur flecked with grey. A scabbard of polished wood inlaid with a pattern of green and white stones hung from his belt, but the scabbard held no sword.

The Duke began by welcoming everyone warmly. His voice was deep and commanded attention, but it did not threaten or attempt to master. It was a calm, reasonable voice, acknowledging everyone present without distinction of rank or race. The commanders heard the quiet authority in the Duke’s voice and the good sense and submitted to it. The muttering died and the sharp glances ceased.

The Duke, as host, thanked everyone for coming and then he invited the Mayor of Fable to speak for her city. Dame Oreande was a tall woman with iron-grey hair cut severely short. Her gown was dark green and plain, her only adornment a shoulder brooch in the shape of a swan. She stepped forward and expressed the thanks of the people of Fable to all those who had travelled from near and far to help defend the city and the Bourne.