The Firehills Part 8

"Right, lad. Now it's 'ard, we needs to temper it." He put the metal back in the coals and let it heat up to a dull glow, cooler than the fiery red that Sam had maintained before, then plunged it once more into the water barrel. He repeated this several times, until at last he seemed happy. Taking the cooled metal from the water, he held it up to his face, squinted along its length with one eye closed, and smiled. "Aye, lad," he said, "that'll do."

"Can I see?" asked Sam, but at that moment, they heard noises outside.

"Stay 'ere," warned Wayland. "I'll go an' see what's amiss."

He stamped out of the forge, and Sam heard m.u.f.fled voices outside. He listened for a while, trying to gauge the mood of the conversation. As far as he could tell, everything seemed friendly, so he ventured to the doorway. Wayland was in discussion with a man on a horse, a tall, blond-haired stranger with a haughty expression. Catching sight of Sam, the man said, "And who do we have here, smith?"

"Oh, 'tis just my lad, sir," replied Wayland, "as helps me around the place. Get 'ee back indoors, boy." Sam turned to go.

"No," said the stranger. "Come here, child." To Wayland, he said, "I've seen your boy, smith. He dresses as you do. This child is different. Come here."

Reluctantly, Sam moved forward.

"What is your name, child?"

Sam looked at Wayland for guidance, but the smith's face remained impa.s.sive.

"Sam," he replied.

"Sam," repeated the stranger thoughtfully. "Your name is as strange as your attire, boy. You will come with me. My king will wish to see you." He beckoned for Sam to approach his horse.

"Now, 'ang on," began Wayland, moving to block Sam's path. In an instant, the horseman had drawn his sword with a ringing hiss of steel.

"One more step, smith," he said coldly, "and you will rue the day you forged this blade." He leveled the point at Wayland's chest. "Child, I will not ask again."

Sam stepped toward the horse and was suddenly hauled upward with surprising force. He found himself on the bony spine of the animal, his face pressed against the man's back. As the horse lurched into motion, he flung his arms around the man's waist and hung on for his life. He had one final glimpse of Wayland, standing like a statue outside his forge, as the horse thundered out of the clearing.

Charly stood in the darkness of the cavern. The magic of the Firehills had faded now, and she felt suddenly very alone. As she waited for her eyes to adjust, she tried to shape a plan in her mind. Sam, she knew, would just blunder off, picking a direction at random. Not her. Come on, Charly, she thought. Common sense. What would be the sensible way? She couldn't look for both Sam and Amergin. She had to a.s.sume that Sam would make his own way toward the bard. And Amergin would be wherever the Sidhe had their stronghold. So she needed to look for signs of the Sidhe, to try and work out where they were most likely to congregate.

One problem occurred to her right away: Her eyes showed no signs of adjusting to the darkness. She needed light or to be able to see in the dark. And she needed to travel quickly. Got it! she thought. Charly closed her eyes-not that it made much difference-and concentrated on a shape. There was no crop circle here to help her with its residual magic, but she had changed. Part of her, deep down, would always be Epona, the horse G.o.ddess.

The change came easily this time. She let out a squeak, too high for the human ear to detect, and its echoes lit up the cavern. She saw-not with her eyes but with her ears-the stalact.i.tes and fluted columns that hung from the ceiling, the tumbled boulders and shattered rock of the floor. With a flutter of leathery wings, she darted through a stone arch and headed off along the tunnel, a tiny bat in the echoing darkness.

Sam was exhausted, his arms like lead. After his efforts on the bellows, there was little energy left in him, and the strain of holding onto the man's waist was unbearable. But the horse continued to canter through the endless forest, and if Sam let go, he would hit the ground at quite a speed. Even in animal form, he was not sure he would survive the fall unscathed. They had galloped along rough paths and dirt tracks for what seemed like an eternity. Once or twice, they had pa.s.sed through farmsteads, huddles of low buildings where the hens went squawking out of their path and the barking of dogs faded behind them. But the settlements were few and far between. Mostly, they traveled through trees-mighty oaks, ashes, and lindens marching past in an unending procession.

Sam was debating whether or not to attract the man's attention and ask for a rest, when to one side of the trail, the trees began to thin. Above loomed the unmistakable bulk of the Downs. They followed a broad, well-worn track along the foot of the slope, through neatly hedged sheep pasture that gradually gave way to fields of crops. Men were at work with horses or plowing with teams of oxen. Plumes of smoke rose here and there from cl.u.s.ters of buildings, and Sam could hear the distant sound of metal on metal. The track grew steeper until suddenly, high above them, Sam saw a town. A great fence of sharpened tree trunks circled a high point on the long ridge of the Downs. Within it, Sam could see wooden buildings and pale, s.h.a.ggy thatch. Smoke rose from here too, a dark smudge across the blue sky.

They reached a broad road up to the town. Outside the towering palisade fence was a deep ditch. The road crossed it on a bridge before plunging between great wooden gates and becoming the main street. Once through the gates, the rider drew his horse to a halt, and Sam slumped gratefully to the ground. He knelt in the dust, ma.s.saging his burning arms and groaning.

"Cease your whimpering, boy," snapped the rider, grabbing Sam by the arm and dragging him to his feet. "We go to see my king. Come."

Leading his horse by the reins, he marched up the street, pulling Sam behind him. As he stumbled along, Sam stared around in wonder. The buildings were similar to those he had seen on his journey through the woods but in a far poorer state of repair. Wayland, with none of the conveniences of electricity and running water, still kept his home clean and well maintained and his land in order. Here Sam sensed an air of decay. Children played in puddles of filth in the streets. The thatches of the buildings were gray and sagging. Sam saw rats scurry for cover as a pack of thin, yellowish dogs trotted along the street. Up ahead, a group of men staggered out of a building and began to brawl in the gutter, cursing and shouting. The rider picked his way carefully around the rolling bodies and continued up the street. At the very crown of the hill was an open square, an area of trampled dirt and scattered household rubbish around the largest building Sam had so far seen. It was low and circular, with a conical roof of thatch rising up to a central hole through which pale blue smoke was drifting. Large wooden doors stood open, but the interior was full of shadow.

As they approached, the rider barked a command, and a young boy ran to take his horse. As the beast was led away, the man said, "You are about to enter the hall of my liege lord, King Haesta. Show respect, speak only when you are spoken to, and be sure to answer his questions. Or . . ." He drew his sword a short way from its scabbard, just far enough for Sam to see the glint of steel. Once more, the rider grasped his arm and pulled him forward. It was as if Sam had walked into a vision of h.e.l.l. In the center of the great hall, a fire blazed, and the heat it gave out was stifling. The smoke hung thick in the room, adding to the gloom. Rough tables were arranged around the perimeter of the chamber, and men were feasting. Bones were scattered across the rush-covered floor, and hunting dogs snarled and brawled over the sc.r.a.ps. As Sam and the rider entered, the roar of voices lessened until something approaching silence fell across the gathering. Darting nervous glances from face to hostile face, Sam was drawn toward the center of the hall. Beyond the fire, on a huge throne of wood and wrought iron, sat an equally large man, his hair and beard blond, and his cheeks flushed red by the heat and wine.

"My lord," began the rider, "I found this boy at the smithy. Wayland claims that this is his lad, his a.s.sistant. But he is like no child I have seen before."

The man on the throne leaned forward, one elbow braced on his knee, and peered at Sam.

"Boy," he rumbled, "account for yourself."

But Sam said nothing. He was staring beyond the throne, to a dark-haired figure almost lost in the shadows.

"You!" Sam said. "I don't believe it!"

"Forgive me, boy," drawled the voice of the Malifex, "but should I know you?"

CHAPTER 6.

Charly sped on leathery wings through the darkness of the Hollow Hills, swooping between dripping stalact.i.tes. The echoes of her voice bounced back to her from a million rock facets and were picked up by her huge, sensitive ears. Her brain converted the echoes into a strangely colorless, grainy image of the world but a precise image. She could judge distances with millimeter precision, flying through gaps barely wider than her outspread wings, darting through a maze of columns and arches.

Soon she saw the first signs of habitation. The floor of the cavern became smoother, worn down by the pa.s.sage of feet, and the outlines of the archways more regular. Someone-or something-had been at work here, improving on nature, widening and shaping to create underground roadways. And then she began to see a flickering orange light. Up ahead, a rectangular doorway was outlined by the glow of flames. She swooped close to the ground and reverted to her human shape. Edging forward, she peeped around the doorframe and gasped. Blazing torches in niches on the walls revealed a chamber of wonders. Along one side of the room was a Viking longboat, perfectly preserved, its dragon-headed prow casting a sinister shadow across the floor. Along the facing wall was a row of suits of armor, some plain and functional, others ornate and highly decorated. Swords and shields of all sizes and designs hung from the columns that supported the roof. In the center of the chamber, in pride of place, stood a huge cannon and its cannonb.a.l.l.s, neatly stacked. Charly realized that this collection represented a history of warfare spanning centuries, but all the items looked as if they had been made only yesterday.

She moved on, past chain-mail shirts and racks of spears, to a doorway on the opposite side of the room. Here more torchlight glinted from golden plates and goblets, from open chests of jeweled crowns and necklaces. Resisting the urge to stop and rummage through the chests, Charly made her way through the treasure chamber and out by another door. This time, she found herself in a broad hallway with a high, vaulted ceiling. Flaming torches were arranged along the walls at regular intervals, fading away into the far distance. Since there was enough light for her to see, Charly decided to stay in human form. But she felt increasingly nervous. The chambers she had pa.s.sed through contained an unimaginable fortune-surely the Sidhe would not leave them unguarded? After a moment's thought, she closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she was clad from head to foot in black-a flowing black satin skirt over black leggings and leather motorbike boots, a black leather jacket over a black Tshirt. Even her auburn hair was now a glossy shade of midnight. With a satisfied smile, she strode off along the chamber.

Amergin sprawled in the dust in the center of the room. The circle of Sidhe who had kept him suspended in the air were gone, their work done. He moaned and tried to push himself up from the floor, but the pain in his shoulder joints was too intense, and he slumped back, exhausted.

So, thought Finnvarr to the Lady Una, it was the boy after all. We have made a grave error.

I don't understand, my lord, replied Una. How did the spirit of Attis come to reside in this . . . this child?

That, I think, is a tale our friend here, he prodded Amergin in the chest with the toe of his boot, has yet to tell us. For now, it is enough to know that the power of the Green Man survives, and it is all that stands between us and our goal. Destroy the spirit of the Green One, and the power of the Malifex will be ours.

So we seek the boy?

Perhaps. And perhaps not. Lord Finnvarr paused for a moment, lost in thought. The boy is involved somehow, but he is not Attis. No, the power of the Green Man is dispersed, like that of the Malifex. It is strong in the boy, but it is not rooted in him. It will manifest soon, though, for a moment. At the festival?

Indeed. I think we should pay a visit to the castle and await the coming of the May King.

And what of him? Lady Una nodded at the motionless form of Amergin, sprawled in the dirt before them. Leave him, said Finnvarr. Seal the door. And when all this is over, there are stories I would like to hear from our friend the Milesian.

Sam stared in astonishment at the Malifex. "Er, sorry," he stammered, "you, um, reminded me of someone."

The Malifex frowned back at him from behind the throne. Sam felt a familiar p.r.i.c.kling in his mind. Boy, said a voice in his head, there is something strange about you. I'm sure we have never met and yet, there is a hint of my brother about you. . . .

The voice receded, and the Malifex bent close to the ear of the king on his throne, whispering.

After a moment, King Haesta leaned forward and said, "Boy, it seems my counselor has not only never seen you before, he has never seen your like. And Counselor Morfax has traveled far. What are you, boy?"

"Just a boy, sir," replied Sam, casting his eyes to the ground. "I work for Wayland, the smith, sort of an apprentice."

The lord frowned and turned again to his counselor. There was another whispered conversation.

"Child," continued Haesta, returning his gaze to where Sam stood, head bowed, "we have seen Wayland's lad, and you are not he. Nor do we know this word, apprentice. So it seems you lie to us. Perhaps you are a foreign spy or worse-some fell creature of magic. It will be amusing to find out. Bind him."

Sam felt his arms seized from behind and began to struggle. A coa.r.s.e rope was looped around his wrists, biting into the flesh. He felt a wave of panic sweep over him and almost instinctively shifted shape. The two men who were attempting to bind his wrists found themselves wrestling with a large and angry wolf. With cries of fear, they released him and fell back. Sam stood in the center of the room, ears flat against his skull, the soft gray fur on his spine bristling. A low growl came from his throat. Otherwise, the room was silent. No one moved. And then Sam felt a familiar presence in his mind. I thought as much, said the Malifex. You stink of my brother. I did not know he had taken to training pets. Well, let us see how well he has taught you.

Without moving or otherwise betraying his powers, the Malifex began to a.s.sault Sam's mind. Time seemed to stand still, the faces of Haesta and his guards frozen in expressions of amazement. Waves of malice beat against Sam, forcing him backward, stiff-legged, step-by-step. His lips were pulled back from his teeth and the long, low growl seemed loud in the unnatural silence. He tried to throw up some sort of shield, a barrier in his mind against the evil radiance coming from the still form of the Malifex. But as he concentrated, his shape slipped, and he was Sam once more. As he slumped to the floor, a wave of angry noise washed over him as time began to flow once more. Men shouted and cursed, scrambling backward in fear. King Haesta called for his guards, and the Malifex, standing quietly behind the throne, merely smiled. Not good enough, boy, came the voice in Sam's head.

Still, perhaps one day- And then rough arms grabbed him from behind. A voice cried, "Take him outside!" and he felt himself dragged backward, heels bouncing on the rough earth floor, toward the door.

News of the excitement had spread around the town. A crowd began to gather. From houses and taverns, running figures converged on the central square. Sam was lifted up onto the shoulders of several of the king's guards and found himself bouncing across the heads of the crowd, sky above him, noise and the stink of unwashed bodies beneath his back.

Then the crowd parted, and Sam was thrown to the ground. He rolled, the air knocked from his lungs, and sprawled to a halt in the dust. Gasping for breath, he pushed himself up and looked around. Dusk was falling, and in the soft twilight, he saw that he was in the wide square of trampled earth at the heart of the town. Not far away, he could see the low circular building that served as the king's feasting hall, the plume of smoke rising from its thatch tinged pink by the light of the setting sun. The crowd had pulled back, whispering and muttering, forming a rough circle around him. Children clung to their parents' legs, excited and scared by the rumors of magic. As Sam peered at them, they gasped and hid in their mothers' skirts. Slowly, with great effort, Sam got to his feet and stood swaying in the middle of the circle of faces. The efforts of the day were beginning to catch up with him, and he felt weak and dizzy. To one side, the crowd parted and Haesta strode into the square, with the Malifex, as always, at his shoulder. The muttering of the crowd ceased. With his hands on his hips, the king said, "It is clear that you are some sort of wizard or evil spirit. Counselor Morfax, however, seems to believe that you can be killed, and so we will attempt it. Now, what, I wonder, is the best way to destroy you?" He turned to the Malifex, and the two of them began a whispered conversation.

Sam became aware of a commotion in the crowd, where the main street of the town entered the square. Gradually the stirring spread, and the crowd began to part. Through the gap rode Wayland on what appeared to be a cart horse. He reined the horse to a standstill. The crowd fell silent. King Haesta broke off his conversation and looked up.

"Smith, what is the meaning of this?" he demanded.

"I've come for the boy," replied Wayland, steadily.

Amergin swam back up to consciousness like a man surfacing from deep water. Suddenly, he found himself gasping in the cool air of the cave, the blood roaring in his ears. For a moment, he thought he was on the sh.o.r.e of Ireland, thrown onto the sands of a new land by the stormy sea, but the darkness and the drip, drip of water said otherwise. Then he remembered. He had been hanging in the center of a cave in a world of agony, his mind fleeing through visions of the past, with the voices in his head, tormenting, questioning, demanding. Finally, he recalled with horror, his defenses had fallen, and the probing mind had picked from his exhausted brain one choice thought: an image of Sam, his eyes the color of amber, soft tendrils of foliage spilling from the corners of his mouth. Slowly, the realization dawned on him that he was not alone. Without moving, he cast out his mind to Finnvarr and Una, their thoughts almost audible.

At the festival? he picked up from Una, and from Finnvarr, . . . await the coming of the May King. So that was it. They would attack the festival at the castle, break the power of the Green Man at the moment when he manifested as the May King. With the spirit of the Green Man broken, dispersed, his power-and that of the Malifex-would be taken by the Sidhe. Control of the cycles of nature, birth and death, the turning seasons, would fall to the Hosts of the Air, whose hatred of humankind spanned millennia.

Amergin sensed that the faeries were leaving and risked opening one eye. As they left the chamber, the Lady Una turned and made a gesture with one hand. A webwork of pale lavender energy sprang into being across the doorway, sealing Amergin inside. The wizard sighed and pressed his cheek against the cold rock of the floor.

Megan and Mrs. P. sat in the old lady's attic room, the light of the moon slanting in through the high window in the end wall. The room was crammed with old furniture, richly polished desks and bookcases. There was nothing of the tackiness of the downstairs rooms here. Everything had an air of age and quality. Like Megan's study back in Dorset, every available surface was laden with books and artifacts-scientific instruments in gleaming bra.s.s, lumps of rock encrusted with fossils, incense burners, candles in elaborate holders. At one end of the room, in the one area relatively free from clutter, was a small altar, with a silver chalice, a wand of rowan wood, a small, exquisite athame-a black-handled knife-and a pentagram. Megan sat with her legs tucked up beneath her, seeming calm and still. But Mrs. P. could sense otherwise. She could read an aura better than Megan, having had many more years in which to practice. And Megan's aura was thick with worry, violent colors swirling in constant agitation.

"My dear," she said, looking up from her work, "do try to calm down. You're playing absolute havoc with the vibrations."

"Sorry," replied Megan distractedly. But try as she might she could not drag her thoughts from their downward spiral. It seemed as if her life were falling apart. First, Amergin taken from her, who knew where. Then Sam . . . what on earth was she going to tell his parents? And now her baby, her Charly, newly initiated into the Craft and out in the dark hills, alone. She had gone to Charly's room to make peace and found her gone, the drapes flapping in the open window. She chewed absently at a fingernail and stared blindly into the moonlit dark.

Mrs. P. bent once more to the sphere of clear crystal on the desk before her, trying to shut out the background hiss of Megan's thoughts. Her heart ached for her friend. Over the years, she had initiated many young girls into the Craft of the Wise, all of them as dear to her as daughters, all of them-when the time came-making that painful break.

The heartache brought wisdom, in time, but all the wisdom in the world could not comfort a mother newly separated from her daughter. Still, in a way, she was glad that her friend was distracted. Her own aura, at that precise moment, did not bear close scrutiny.

Time pa.s.sed, and the silver minute hand of moonlight swept slowly across the carpet. Eventually, Megan could stand it no more. "Well?" she demanded, her voice loud in the silence. "Does it tell you anything? Is she all right?"

"She is well," replied Mrs. P. "Far from here-I do not know where-but well."

"And Amergin?"

"He . . . is lost."

Megan gasped, a look of sudden horror on her face.

"No, my dear, not dead, but . . . lost to us. He wanders in his mind, I think, in places I cannot follow. But he lives. Sam, I cannot see, but I feel it in my bones that he is well. Some higher power, I sense, protects him."

Megan slumped back in her chair, eyes shut against tears of relief.

"There is more," continued the old lady. "The Sidhe are plotting, planning some evil. It involves the festival tomorrow. I think we should send out word among the Wise. I feel we will be needed."

"Right!" Megan unfolded from the chair in one fluid motion. "I'll get on the phone, start letting people know."

Relieved to find an outlet for her tension, she bustled out of the room.

Mrs. P. watched her go with a mixture of affection and pride. Megan had always been one of her favorites. She sat quietly, gazing out of the window at the dance of moonlight on the sea, remembering Megan's initiation. But slowly, inevitably, her thoughts returned to what she had seen in the crystal ball. So many rituals down through the years, not only initiation and the marriage rite-the Handfasting-but also that other, more somber ritual, the Rite for the Dead. You would think that, as one who had presided for so long over the turning of the Wheel of Life, her own death would come as no surprise. Oh, well, she sighed, so much for wisdom. But one thing age had taught her was the futility of brooding. She took a deep breath and got to her feet. If she was to have one last adventure, then there were preparations to make.

Charly strode along the hallway, the soft padding of her boots loud in the silence. The twin rows of burning torches in their niches stretched away into the distance, almost converging at the vanishing point. They seemed to burn without smoke and with no sign that anyone attended to them. Their steady light barely illuminated the arches of the ceiling, far above. The air of the chamber, shielded from whatever season or weather prevailed in the world outside, was mild, and Charly began to feel uncomfortable in her leather jacket and boots. She had been walking for some time, and still the long hallway showed no signs of coming to an end. She wondered if she was in fact moving at all. The twin rows of torches and towering pillars marched by without any feature to mark her progress. She glanced behind, half expecting to see the exit from the treasure chamber. Instead, there were only the torches stretching away behind, but they seemed to stop a few hundred meters back. As she watched, the farthest pair of torches went out. And then the next. A wave of darkness was moving toward her along the hall, snuffing out the flames two by two.

Charly turned back and began to walk more quickly. Perhaps it's the wind, she thought, knowing as she did so that the air was completely still. Now she could hear a strange sound, a kind of hissing and murmuring, as though an unseen host of people was conversing in soft voices. She glanced back once more and saw that the darkness was drawing closer, faster than she could walk. She broke into a jog, wondering how long she could keep it up. Then, to her horror, she saw that up ahead the torches came to an end as they had behind, in a pool of darkness. She looked back over her shoulder and screamed. Like a black tidal wave, a sweeping shadow was bearing down upon her. And within it were creatures from her worst nightmares. Forgotten beasts from the elder days-driven underground along with the Sidhe, their masters-poured down the hall. The cu sith, huge black dogs with eyes of flame, loped toward Charly. Behind them came bugganes, shape-shifting from goblin to ram to giant bull. Swooping and flapping through the air, carrying the darkness to the high vaulted ceiling, were banshees, beautiful faery women with flowing black hair and fangs, who drank human blood. Farther back, lost in the black tide, were shapes Charly could not make out, terrible shapes. She screamed once more and broke into a run. Although there was darkness before her, she fled in terror from the horror behind her, from night into night.

But as she ran, she made out a faint rectangle in the wall ahead, picked out in a flicker of firelight. The end of the torches ahead marked only the end of the long hallway, and Charly was within reach of a doorway. In blind panic, she ran down the last stretch, expecting with every pulse of her laboring heart to feel the breath of the black dogs on her neck. The boots she had created for herself rubbed against her heels and sweat was pouring down her spine within the leather jacket, but still she pushed herself onward. The noise-the immense, whispering wall of sound-was so close now it seemed to swirl around her as the rectangle of firelight grew, slowly, so painfully slowly. A red haze began to grow around the edges of Charly's vision, and each breath burned in her chest like flame.

And then the doorway was before her, the comforting flicker of firelight playing on its stone frame. She lunged toward the opening, boots skidding on the dusty floor, and flailed to a halt on the threshold. The room before her fell silent as the Host of the Sidhe paused from their feasting and looked up at her.

"Smith," said King Haesta, "this is not your boy. In fact, it is not even a boy. It is a dwarf wizard of some sort. In your place, I would not wish to claim allegiance with a wizard sentenced to death."

"As yer like," replied Wayland. "Still, I've come for the boy, an' I ain't leavin' without 'im."

"In that case-" Haesta sighed. "You will die with him. Guards."

Soldiers with iron spears and swords stepped forward. Wayland slid from the back of his horse and dropped to the ground. It seemed to Sam as though the ground shook as his feet hit the earth of the square. From a sling on his back, the smith drew a hammer, a lump of blue gray iron the size of his two fists, mounted on the end of a long wooden handle. He dropped the hammerhead to the ground between his feet and rested his hands on the handle's upper end.

"Sam, me lad," said the smith, "we better be takin' us leave o' these folk. Down the high street, if yer please."

Sam made to move, and the guards started forward to stop him. With incredible speed, the smith's hammer lashed out, and two of the guards dropped to the ground, moaning.

"Go on, lad!" exclaimed Wayland. "Don't stand sowin' gape seed. Shift it!" Sam closed his mouth and began to push through the crowd, heading for the long main street. No one seemed inclined to stop him. However, looking back he saw that Wayland was surrounded by a growing number of the king's guards. Fearing for his friend, he paused. The smith's hammer was whirling around his head, almost too fast for Sam to follow. The hum it made as it cut through the air was punctuated by the crack of bone. More guards poured into the square, but as he fought, Wayland seemed to grow. He was a good head taller than the largest of his opponents now, and a light seemed to be flowing out of his skin. As Sam watched, the smith became taller still and broader. Throwing back his head, he bellowed with laughter as the huge hammer hummed and sang. Sam decided it was safe to leave the smith to his work and slipped through the back of the crowd into the street beyond. Despite his exhaustion, he managed to jog down the slope toward the town gate. Soon he heard footsteps behind him and turned. To his relief, it was the smith, grinning fiercely, covered with scratches and cuts but otherwise unscathed.

"Right then, young Sam," panted the smith, "we needs get you back on yer quest to 'elp yer friend." Outside the gate, he gestured to the right and led Sam around the curve of the hill, following the crest of one of the great defensive ditches that encircled the town. A quarter of the way around the town's perimeter, Wayland pointed to a slight rise, a smaller version of the hilltop on which the town stood. Here a beacon fire was burning, throwing sparks up into the deepening twilight.

"That's where we're 'eaded," explained the smith. Sam looked puzzled but was content to follow. They crossed the ditch on a narrow wooden bridge and headed up the gentle slope onto the very crest of the Downs. Gazing out over the landscape below, the strangeness of his situation hit Sam like a hammer blow. Where he would have expected the orange map work of streetlights was . . . nothing. A rolling blanket of blue gray woodland stretched out under the soft evening air to the dying stain of the sun on the far horizon. What was he doing here, so far from home? He heard a grunt from Wayland and turned.