“
Noroch!
” A tiny white flame lit on the kindling and spread, and he tended it, building the fire swiftly until Maerad was forced to stand by the opposite wall because of the heat.
“It’s a bit like saying, ‘Here we are,’ ” she said. “Don’t you think?”
“And you think they don’t know we’re here?”
“What happens when it’s dark?”
“In the dark the wers hold their power,” said Cadvan. “They will fear this fire. They cannot break the stone. I don’t believe they will break the barrier I have made. We have, I think, enough wood to last until morning. Now, Maerad, I know this is not a good time to ask you, but can you fight with a knife?”
Maerad did, in fact, own a dagger she had stolen from one of the Thane’s men and kept secretly in her belt next to her skin. “I can try,” she said. “I’ve never really fought with one.” She showed Cadvan the dagger and he examined it swiftly.
“It’s of rough make, but serviceable, and your size,” he said. “If you are attacked, go for the eyes, if you can, and remember to hold it firm in your fist, like this, so it will drive in. I’ll have to give you lessons in swordcraft when we are in a less tight spot.”
Maerad felt her stomach tighten. “What will attack us?” she asked. What use was a knife against shadows?
“I don’t know yet,” said Cadvan. “But remember, although they are of the Dark, they can be killed. Their worst weapon is fear. Hold back the fear with everything you have. And only fight if you are attacked. Otherwise, leave any fighting to me.”
He drew his sword, and the faint ringing sound echoed off the stone around them. The fire snapped and cracked, throwing strange shadows over the ancient walls, leaping up into the abyss above them. Maerad could see no sky through the roof, only an impenetrable darkness. Cadvan stretched, and then reached for his pack. “But for now, I am ravenous!” he said. He tossed Maerad a biscuit and some nuts and fruit, and they ate, their backs to the walls, their feet stretched out to the fire, their faces glowing in the heat. Maerad could hear the silence of the empty land around them, stretching for miles beyond the friendly popping of the firewood. It bore down on her, like a weight. And then, the sound she feared: a long, drawn-out howl. She almost dropped her biscuit with fright, but Cadvan appeared unmoved.
“The sun has set,” he said.
“Wolfwers?” she whispered.
“Yes, for the meantime. The hunt is starting. They will take a little time to work out what to do about the barrier. It’s white fire. The Dark cannot pass it without breaking its power, and that will not be easy. You should get some sleep.”
The howl came again, and then was answered.
“Sleep? Now?”
“Why not? I will watch.” Cadvan turned and grinned at her. “Be assured I won’t let you miss any fireworks. Remember: fear is their worst weapon.”
Maerad obediently lay down and closed her eyes. She tried to act as if she were not afraid; she tried to relax, but it was difficult, out in the wild, on a broken stone floor, with wers sent by some black magician howling for her blood. . . . She ached all over with weariness after the hard walk that day, and the fire was so warm. But her body sang with tension, and would not let her sleep. After a while she stopped trying and sat up, drawing closer to Cadvan, who nodded but said nothing.
The Bard sat very still beside her, carefully feeding the fire. His face relaxed; he might have been asleep, apart from the watchfulness of his eyes. His sword lay drawn by his feet.
The wers were circling the hill. Maerad and Cadvan could hear their feet padding around and around, trying to find a way past the barrier. Maerad listened hard and counted maybe twenty. Every now and then one would stop and howl, a long ululation that froze the blood, a sound of utter desolation born out of long years of horror and emptiness. The cries hit Maerad in the pit of
Noroch!
” A tiny white flame lit on the kindling and spread, and he tended it, building the fire swiftly until Maerad was forced to stand by the opposite wall because of the heat.
“It’s a bit like saying, ‘Here we are,’ ” she said. “Don’t you think?”
“And you think they don’t know we’re here?”
“What happens when it’s dark?”
“In the dark the wers hold their power,” said Cadvan. “They will fear this fire. They cannot break the stone. I don’t believe they will break the barrier I have made. We have, I think, enough wood to last until morning. Now, Maerad, I know this is not a good time to ask you, but can you fight with a knife?”
Maerad did, in fact, own a dagger she had stolen from one of the Thane’s men and kept secretly in her belt next to her skin. “I can try,” she said. “I’ve never really fought with one.” She showed Cadvan the dagger and he examined it swiftly.
“It’s of rough make, but serviceable, and your size,” he said. “If you are attacked, go for the eyes, if you can, and remember to hold it firm in your fist, like this, so it will drive in. I’ll have to give you lessons in swordcraft when we are in a less tight spot.”
Maerad felt her stomach tighten. “What will attack us?” she asked. What use was a knife against shadows?
“I don’t know yet,” said Cadvan. “But remember, although they are of the Dark, they can be killed. Their worst weapon is fear. Hold back the fear with everything you have. And only fight if you are attacked. Otherwise, leave any fighting to me.”
He drew his sword, and the faint ringing sound echoed off the stone around them. The fire snapped and cracked, throwing strange shadows over the ancient walls, leaping up into the abyss above them. Maerad could see no sky through the roof, only an impenetrable darkness. Cadvan stretched, and then reached for his pack. “But for now, I am ravenous!” he said. He tossed Maerad a biscuit and some nuts and fruit, and they ate, their backs to the walls, their feet stretched out to the fire, their faces glowing in the heat. Maerad could hear the silence of the empty land around them, stretching for miles beyond the friendly popping of the firewood. It bore down on her, like a weight. And then, the sound she feared: a long, drawn-out howl. She almost dropped her biscuit with fright, but Cadvan appeared unmoved.
“The sun has set,” he said.
“Wolfwers?” she whispered.
“Yes, for the meantime. The hunt is starting. They will take a little time to work out what to do about the barrier. It’s white fire. The Dark cannot pass it without breaking its power, and that will not be easy. You should get some sleep.”
The howl came again, and then was answered.
“Sleep? Now?”
“Why not? I will watch.” Cadvan turned and grinned at her. “Be assured I won’t let you miss any fireworks. Remember: fear is their worst weapon.”
Maerad obediently lay down and closed her eyes. She tried to act as if she were not afraid; she tried to relax, but it was difficult, out in the wild, on a broken stone floor, with wers sent by some black magician howling for her blood. . . . She ached all over with weariness after the hard walk that day, and the fire was so warm. But her body sang with tension, and would not let her sleep. After a while she stopped trying and sat up, drawing closer to Cadvan, who nodded but said nothing.
The Bard sat very still beside her, carefully feeding the fire. His face relaxed; he might have been asleep, apart from the watchfulness of his eyes. His sword lay drawn by his feet.
The wers were circling the hill. Maerad and Cadvan could hear their feet padding around and around, trying to find a way past the barrier. Maerad listened hard and counted maybe twenty. Every now and then one would stop and howl, a long ululation that froze the blood, a sound of utter desolation born out of long years of horror and emptiness. The cries hit Maerad in the pit of
Similar Books
