chapter 5

The sixty-five ships of the Milesians rode the swell off the coast of the new land, their tattered sails furled now. Amergin stood in the prow of the leading ship, one foot braced against the gunwale, and looked out over the expanse of green. As his eyes took in the rolling hills where the cloud shadows raced, his heart felt as though it would burst with joy. A song came to him—

Amergin. I know you can hear me.

An insistent pressure pushed against the edges of his mind. Go away, he thought, this land is ours. Amergin. Stop it, now. You’re wasting your time. Again, the pressure, making colored lights dance behind his eyes. And then a searing pain that brought him gasping into consciousness.

That’s better, said the Lady Una. You can’t hide in your memories forever.

“My lady,” croaked the wizard. He had neither eaten nor drunk for many hours now, perhaps days. It was impossible to tell in the darkness of the cavern. He peered down at the ghostly oval of Una’s face, floating in the gloom below him. He was suspended in midair, far above the floor of the chamber, by a webwork of pale blue energy that crawled and writhed over his skin. His arms and legs were flung wide, and the pain in his joints was becoming unbearable. He was kept aloft by the will of a circle of faeries, crouched around the perimeter of the cave. They worked in shifts. Whenever one of the circle grew tired of their mental efforts, that one would be replaced.

“Amergin, my dear,” said the Lady Una, using conventional speech rather than her mind, “your defenses are weakening; I can feel it. But you could end the pain now, so very easily. Simply tell us what we want to know.” She sat on the ground beneath him, knees tucked up beneath her chin, and smiled sweetly. “What—or who—is this force that opposes us? And how can we overcome it, to claim the power of the Malifex?”

But Amergin had gone. In his mind, he was splashing through the surf, side by side with Eremon and Emer Donn, up onto the shores of Ireland.

With the setting sun at her back, Charly left the buildings of Hastings behind her and headed out over wilder country. Wheeling over a crumpled landscape of woods and valleys she searched, straining to find a familiar landmark. Normally, she would have been lost, but in this body, she could draw upon senses that would bring a bird safely from Africa to its particular nest site each year, across a thousand miles of sea. Skimming low over the cliffs, something came to her—a particular combination of smell, sight, senses she couldn’t even name. Together, they cried out to her: Here!

Here was the place she was seeking, Mrs. P.’s special place, the Firehills, where her initiation had taken place. Tumbling from the sky, she landed in the long shadows of the gorse bushes and resumed her human shape. She walked farther down the hillside, toward the sound of the waves. Her heart was thumping in her chest, but she was torn between fear and excitement. She felt as if she was on the brink of something, something wonderful but scary, like a roller-coaster ride. All she had to do was take the next step, and she would be whisked away into the night, soaring and plummeting.

In an open glade of grass among the dark mounds of gorse, she stopped. The moon had risen now, close to full, and its light cast a track of pale gold across the sea. Charly took a deep breath. Right, she thought, let’s see what I can really do. What she was about to attempt was not strictly forbidden—Wicca had few rules beyond its Rede: An it harm none, do what thou wilt. However, there were traditions, ways of doing things. And this was not one of them. Charly had decided to carry out a ceremony called Drawing Down the Moon. In this ceremony, the high priestess of the coven receives the spirit of the Goddess, in effect, becomes the Goddess, for the duration of the rite. Since Charly was neither a high priestess nor currently part of a coven, this was unusual to say the least and not without risks. But to rescue Sam she needed power, and this was the fastest way she could think of to obtain it. The ritual was clear in Charly’s mind. She had memorized it long ago, dreaming in her bedroom of the day when she would be a high priestess, wise and graceful, leading her coven in the ways of the Craft. However, since the ritual generally involved several people, she had to frantically edit the words in her head.

Once she had found a formula that would work, she paused, breathing deeply, centering herself. And then, with her arms thrown wide to the moon, she cried out:

I invoke thee and call upon thee,

She stopped, heart pounding, eyes closed. The feeling of standing upon a precipice grew stronger, making her head spin. Taking a deep breath, she continued:

Hail Aradia!

From the Amalthean horn

Pour forth thy store of love;

I lowly bend Before thee, I adore thee to the end,

With loving sacrifice thy shrine adore. Um.

She stumbled. The rite called for incense, and she had none. She would have to skip a bit.

Tum-ti-tum, spend thine ancient love,

O Mighty One, descend

To aid me, who without thee am forlorn.

Her head was pounding in time with her heartbeat, and she felt the sweat cool on her skin in the night breeze. She seemed to feel everything more intensely—the movements of the tiny hairs on her upraised arms, small scurryings in the grass, the sharp smell from the sea far below her. She shook her head, trying to find a still point of concentration from which to continue. One last verse, to seal the ritual, to give it its power. Ignoring the waves of sensation sweeping over her, she made the shape of a pentagram in the air above her and called out:

Of the Mother darksome and divine

Mine the scourge, and mine the kiss;

The five-point star of love and bliss

Here I charge you with this sign.

Nothing. And then a silent explosion, a detonation without sound or force, felt only in her mind. Charly staggered and turned around. The hillside behind her was a blaze of golden light. A flame had sprung from every flower of the gorse, a million tiny candles burning clear and bright in the darkness. The sweet smell of coconut was overpowering. She gasped, her face bathed in the yellow radiance as the Firehills poured their tribute into the night sky. Moving her head to take in the spectacle, Charly found that her vision was blurred. No, not blurred—doubled—as if everything she saw bore an overlay, another layer of meaning drawn across the everyday world like a veil. Nothing was clear or familiar anymore. Turning back, it seemed as if the sea had retreated, for she was now some distance from the shore. A tumbled expanse of rough grass and blazing gorse ran down to a cliff edge, beyond which she could hear the relentless boom and hiss of the waves. Sensing some presence, she spun around. Behind her was a steep slope. The blazing flowers of the gorse were still there, but another landscape lay over them, older, darker. High up on the skyline, a fire was burning, a plume of sparks streaming away on the steady wind from the sea. A beacon, she thought, the Firehills!

Charly could hear music, rhythmic drums and the chanting of human voices. The sense of doubled vision made it hard to focus, but she seemed to see a figure moving toward her, picking its way between the dark backs of the gorse bushes.

Charly closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to clear her head. When she opened them again, the figure was much closer—a young woman, tall and darkhaired. She was dressed in the clothes of a woodsman or hunter, linen and leather, earth colors, and the light of the moon seemed to cling to her as she walked.

The sensation Charly had before, of heightened senses, was overwhelming now. She heard, felt, saw everything so clearly. A smell of wood smoke from the beacon on the hill, though the wind was blowing away from her. Again, she felt the tiny stirrings of the fine hairs on her arms. She felt the pounding of the distant drums through her feet as much as she heard them.

“Daughter,” said a voice.

“Now then, young Sam,” said Wayland, “finish up yer snap and let’s set to.” The huge smith was bustling around his workshop, gathering together various items. Sam stuffed the last of the bread and cheese in his mouth and stood up, dusting the flour from his hands and clothes.

“I’d make ’ee a sword,” continued Wayland, “but it’d be awkerd for ’ee ter swing about, bein’ a little ’un. Besides, ’tis the virtue of the iron’s the thing, not the size o’ the blade. Can’t stand any touch o’ the stuff, the Faery Folk. No, we’ll make ’ee somethin’ more suited to yer size.”

He brought forth from the recesses of the room a dull, grayish bar of metal, a little shorter than Sam’s forearm.

“Aye, this’ll do,” he said, eyeing the metal thoughtfully. “I ’ad a mind ter make summat special wi’ this. A day and a night I worked on this”—he waved the bar at Sam—“’eatin’ it over charcoal, drawin’ it out, foldin’ it, ’eatin’ again. Takes up some o’ the goodness o’ the coal, see? Stops it bein’ brittle. Aye, this’ll do just right.”

He took the length of metal over to the great open hearth, where charcoal was glowing gently in the gloom.

“Your job, lad,” said Wayland, “is ter tackle to with the bellows.” He gestured toward a contraption of wood and leather beside the hearth.

Sam made his way over to where the smith indicated and was hit by a wave of intense heat. Squatting down, he grasped a sweat-polished wooden handle and gave it an experimental tug. As it moved downward, there was a deep whoosh, and the charcoal in the hearth glowed yellow. Sparks rushed upward, and the heat almost knocked him over backward.

“Right, lad,” said Wayland, “just keep it up.”

Sam raised the handle and brought it down once more and again. The charcoal flared, the air shimmered, and Sam settled into the rhythm.

Using a pair of tongs, Wayland placed the length of iron in the fire, at its very heart where the coals glowed almost white. He turned it from time to time, studying it closely, until it too began to glow. When he was satisfied with its color, he took it over to a great anvil mounted on a block of wood and began to hammer. Working along the edges, always in the same direction, Wayland began to draw the blade out, creating a taper from hilt to tip. From time to time, he returned the metal to the fire and waited until the cherry glow returned.

The sweat began to drip from Sam, running down his nose, and he was grateful when Wayland returned the blade to the anvil, so that he could rest his aching arms. The heat and the clangor of the smith’s hammer made the air pulsate. And so the hours passed: Wayland intent on his work, his face screwed up in concentration in the ruddy glow of the coals, while Sam alternated between intense activity and periods of boredom. He crouched in the half-light, his hair plastered to his head with sweat as the smith performed his craft.

Occasionally, Wayland would heat the steel to a fierce glow, urging Sam to greater efforts, and then leave it to cool.

“Let it rest awhile, lad. And us, too. Reckon we’ve earned it.”

As they rested, Wayland explained to Sam the magic of the bladesmith’s trade, how the properties of iron varied according to its composition and the way it was heated, and how the rate at which the iron cooled also affected its quality. An ideal blade, he explained, should be hard enough to keep a sharp edge and yet not so hard that it became brittle and shattered. But it also should be flexible, but not too flexible or it would buckle or lose its edge. And the only way to judge was by experience—by the feel and look of the metal as it heated and cooled, by the way it responded to the hammer.

Then they returned to their labors. Sam toiled away at the bellows handle as Wayland reheated the blade and took it back to the anvil, the sparks leaping as he smote it with his hammer. In the long, hot darkness, the blade took shape—its final outline slender and smoothly tapered, with a metal rod at one end to take the hilt and pommel.

“Time to anneal it,” said the smith and placed the metal back in the flames. When it was glowing from end to end, he removed it, wrapped it in pieces of sacking smeared with wet clay, and laid in the embers of the fire.

“We’ll leave ’un there. Come back in the mornin’.”

Charly looked up. “Who are you?” she asked. In the years that followed, she rarely spoke of this night, and it was largely because she could never find the words to describe the young woman who stood before her. She was beautiful, more beautiful than anyone Charly had ever seen or heard of. Her skin seemed to glow as if lit from within. Her hair was dark brown and worn in braids, pulled back and gathered behind her head by a bronze pin. She bore a raven on her shoulder. It gazed at Charly along its bristly beak, head on one side, and uttered a low croak. But it was the woman’s eyes . . . Charly could never find the words to describe her eyes. They drew her in, the irises of green and hazel spiraling inward to pupils of blackest night. And there, in that darkness, the stars.

“I am Epona,” said the voice, and Charly gasped. Epona! A name from her earliest dreams. Although her initiation had come upon her unexpectedly and rather earlier than was usual, Charly had been a good student. She had read her Book of Shadows, handed down to her by her mother, and many of the other classical texts on the mysteries of Wicca. Many of these dealt with the various aspects of the Great Goddess, the many names by which the one mother goddess had been known in the cultures of the ages, Greek, Roman, Egyptian, and so on. One of Charly’s favorites had always been Epona. She was a horsegoddess of the ancient Celts, a goddess of the Underworld but also of healing and the harvest. She was the only Celtic goddess to have been worshipped in ancient Rome, having been adopted by the Roman cavalry, who discovered her as they fought their way through western Europe. To Charly, brought up on a farm, she had always seemed the ideal goddess, wild and young, a friend to the farmer and to the rider.

“Come,” said Epona, “ride with me.” She whistled and was answered by a high whinny. A thunder of hoofbeats and a white stallion appeared. It stamped to a halt before them, the breath gusting from its nostrils, blue white clouds in the moonlight. Epona mounted and beckoned for Charly to join her. The raven had flown as the horse approached, drifting silently into the night on soot-black wings. Reaching out for the offered hand, Charly experienced a swirling sensation and found herself on the horse’s back, clinging to Epona’s waist.

With a mighty kick, the horse took flight, cantering up the slope. As they picked their way through the bushes, the thorns scraping Charly’s legs, she saw that they were heading for the fire on the hill’s summit. The sound of chanting grew louder. At the foot of the beacon, Epona reined in the horse. It pranced sideways for a moment, reluctant to end its flight. The raven circled them once, then flopped to the ground, hopping out of the reach of stray hooves. Charly looked out over the sea.

“I heard the words of the old ritual, child,” said Epona.

“You are yet young.”

“I–I know. I’m sorry,” stuttered Charly. “I was desperate.”

“What is it you seek?”

Charly thought for a moment. “Power.”

Epona threw back her head and laughed, a wild sound. The horse reared, and Charly clung to the goddess.

“Power? You are a child. What need have you for power?”

“A friend of mine is in trouble. I need to help him,” replied Charly sharply.

Epona laughed once more. “Come,” she said and with another blur of sensation, Charly found herself on the ground once more, Epona by her side. Looking around, she saw that the horse was gone. Only the raven remained, and with three flaps of its glossy wings, it returned to Epona’s shoulder.

The goddess took Charly by the hand and led her to the foot of the beacon. They stood side by side, the great fire roaring above them, the sparks streaming away inland on the wind. Before her the land dropped away, and still Charly had the impression of two worlds, one layered upon the other. Dimly, she could still make out the blazing flowers of the gorse, in the Firehills of her own time. But over them lay another landscape, one much older. As she had noticed before, the sea was much farther away than she remembered. How many centuries, she wondered, would it take for the waves to erode that much land?

Charly saw that Epona was beckoning and moved to follow her. It was difficult to walk. Her doubled vision caused her to stumble as she struggled to keep up with the horse goddess. Cresting the ridge, she paused. Below her, in the lee of the hill, was a hollow. The sound of drums and chanting was coming from a group of huddled figures, their shadows flickering in the light from the beacon. Charly moved closer. As she drew near, the figures were revealed as men in rough clothes of linen and leather, heavy cloaks of animal skin drawn close about them. They bent over something hidden from Charly, some chanting, some beating wide, shallow drums of tanned hide.

“Come closer,” said Epona, beckoning. “Do not be afraid.”

Sam awoke scratching. He had spent the night on a rough mattress stuffed with straw, in the single room that Wayland shared with his son. Rolling his shirt up, Sam examined the rash that dotted his stomach and chest. He hoped this was from the prickling of the straw, but he suspected that some kind of insect had been involved. After a breakfast of fresh eggs and more coarse bread, Wayland said, “Now then, lad. Let’s see ’ow she’s farin’.”

He set off toward the smithy.

Sam arrived to find the smith lifting the bundle of sackcloth from the cold ashes of the forge and peeling back the layers. The clay had baked solid, and the cloth crackled, shedding clouds of dust as he revealed the contents. Sam reached out and touched the smooth surface. The iron was black and cold now, a dull spike of dark metal marked with the imprint of Wayland’s hammer.

“C’mon, boy,” said Wayland. He began to build a fire in the center of the forge, heaping charcoal over a pyramid of dry sticks. Sam helped him, and soon they were both covered in black dust, grinning at each other with dazzling eyes and teeth. Wayland struck a spark into a tuft of dry moss, blew on it until a glow bathed his face, and fed it into a gap in the pile of firewood. After more blowing, a tiny flame sprang into life. While Sam watched the fire, the smith worked on the blade with files, grinding and shaping, adding the beginnings of a sharp edge. The metal was soft, easily worked, and quickly took shape under Wayland’s expert hands.

The fire blazed for a while, lighting up the dark smithy, then began to settle. With a brittle tinkling, the charcoal collapsed into the embers of the wood and the flames subsided. When the hearth was glowing gently, Wayland added more charcoal and said, “Right, lad. Get on they bellows.”

Sam hauled on the bellows handle until the charcoal roared, and Wayland returned the blade to the fire. “Need to ’arden it now,” he told Sam. “Get pumpin’.”

Charly gasped, her hand to her mouth. As she drew closer to the circle, she saw that the men were bent over a shallow pit in the earth. Within lay a body, a tall man of middle years, a dusting of gray in his hair. His arms were folded across his chest, and beneath his hands was the pommel of a long sword. He was strewn with the petals of wildflowers, and items of jewelry had been placed about him. Around his neck was a chain of bronze links, and in his hair, clasped to his brow, was a circlet in the form of galloping horses.

“They pray to me now, at the time of death,” said Epona, “for the Underworld is mine. You say you seek power. This is power.” She gestured at the chanting circle. “The worship of men.”

“But that doesn’t help me,” protested Charly. “Nobody worships me. I’m just a kid.”

“No, my child,” replied Epona, “for you drew down the moon. The Goddess is within you now. Take up your power.”

She led Charly by the hand into the center of the circle. They seemed to pass through the bodies of the men like smoke and found themselves standing by the graveside. The drumming and the relentless drone of voices crowded in on Charly. The two worlds, the ancient and the present day, swirled around her on black wings. She saw images, visions in the streaming sparks from the beacon fire—births, deaths, the galloping of white horses on green fields, harvests of golden wheat, bright swords against the sky. The eye of the moon, high above now, seemed to pierce her, nailing her to the spot. She couldn’t breathe. And then, when she thought she would burst, Epona reached out and touched one finger to her forehead.

Suddenly, Charly was at the center of a shaft of light, a pillar of cold radiance that lanced upward into the night sky. She seemed to expand, until she filled the whole world, and the white light spilled out of her, from her eyes, from her mouth. Clenching her fists, Charly drew the radiance into herself, until it formed a white-hot core deep inside. She threw back her head and laughed, high and wild.

“Run with me,” said Epona. And Charly ran.

Together, they left the circle of shadowy figures and the blazing beacon and ran along the hill’s crest. With the speed of horses, they tore across the night, and the cold light of the moon spilled from Charly so that she seemed like a vessel of glass, lit from within. As she ran, her hair streaming behind her, Charly caught glimpses of another figure, half-seen, always on the edge of vision.

“Mother,” she called to Epona, “who runs with us?”

“It is my consort, the Horned God. The one you call the Green Man.”

Charly turned her head and caught an impression of antlers, a face of leaves and a familiar pair of amber eyes.

“Come,” cried Epona and plunged on into the night. For an eternity, they seemed to run without tiring, along the high ridge. Charly grinned as she ran, exhilarated by the speed, burning within with the power of the Moon Goddess. No longer would she envy Sam his power. This night was hers, had come from her alone. She had her own path to tread now.

After a time that Charly could not measure, the bushes grew thicker and tall trees began to dot the slope. Epona paused, waiting for Charly to catch up. As she drew to a halt, the goddess placed her hands on Charly’s shoulders and smiled.

“We are one now, you and I.”

“My thanks, Mother,” said Charly. Then she added, “I seek a doorway, an entrance to the Underworld.”

“There is a gate such as you seek,” continued Epona, “It is called the Gate of Water. Follow.”

Epona plunged down the slope, leaving the ridge behind and picking her way through the thickening trees. Soon they were in dark woodland, full of strange shadows and movements in the undergrowth.

After a time, Epona led Charly down a steep slope into a narrow valley. Trees arched over from either side, blotting out the stars, but the light of the moon followed them. At the bottom of the valley, splashing and murmuring over rocks, was a tiny stream of cold, clear water. Together, Epona and her daughter followed the flow upward, picking their way slowly through the overhanging branches. At last, they came to a small pool in a bay of rock, where ferns clung to the crevices and water dripped from the moss, a thousand bright droplets.

“The Gate of Water,” said Epona, standing aside. Charly stepped forward. Before her was a blank face of stone, higher than her head, draped with greenery. The source of the stream was somewhere in the rock above her. Water poured down from the leaves of the ferns like strings of glass beads, and its music was all around her.

“Trust,” said Epona, “and the gate will open unto you. But take heed, daughter. Those who journey in the Underworld are ever in peril. You have run well on this, your first night of power. But my protection was upon you, and the elder things of the world would not draw near. I will not always be by your side. Fare well, daughter, and blessed be.”

“Thank you,” replied Charly, feeling awkward. The light that burned within her was fading, and the impression of existing in two worlds at once was drifting away. She gazed at the wall of layered stone. When she looked back, Epona was gone.

Charly stepped forward into the shallow pool at the foot of the waterfall, gasping at the icy bite of the water. She stretched out one hand, meaning to test the weeddraped rock but then decided against it. Trust, Epona had said. Closing her eyes, she strode forward, flinched in expectation, but the anticipated collision never came. Instead, she stumbled, tried to regain her footing, and sprawled headlong into dry dust.

Sam worked until the sweat poured from him, maintaining a steady rhythm that kept the metal glowing red. Just when he thought he was at the end of his endurance, Wayland took the blade in a pair of tongs and plunged it into a barrel of water. Steam billowed up with a great whoosh, and the smith bent close, peering intently at the metal. When he was satisfied, he took it out and returned with it to the forge.

“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 muffled 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 impassive.

“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 assume 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 goddess.

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 stalactites 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 passed 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 clusters 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, shaggy 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, massaging 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 hell. 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 scraps. 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 assistant. 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?”