Sky Wolves (13 page)

‘We’ve got to follow it,’ called Checkers, rushing past, but Boris didn’t hear the rest of what he was saying, because he had already gone again.

‘Because,’ explained Checkers, dashing past again.

‘Oh, well,’ thought Boris, settling down. Experience had taught him that sooner or later either he would understand what was happening or it would stop happening and then there was no need to bother.

‘… save the world!’ concluded Checkers, skidding to a halt in front of Boris.

Boris looked at Checkers, and Checkers looked at Boris.

‘You don’t know where we’re going, do you?’ said Boris.

‘Er, no,’ said Checkers. ‘But I do know,’ he added,
bounding round Boris in a circle, ‘that we’ve got to find it. And when we’ve found it, we’ve got to fight it, and then – and then – well ’

‘What?’ asked Boris.

‘Then we can go home,’ said Checkers firmly. ‘But not before we’ve found it – or we won’t know the way. That’s the problem, Boris, old chum,’ he said, finally standing still. ‘Finding it in the first place. She never said how we were to do that.’ And he chewed Boris’s ear in a distracted way.

‘Do you mean that star?’ said Boris.

‘What star?’ said Checkers, leaping up again.

‘That star – there,’ said Boris.

Checkers ran round and round, barking, but all he could see was the storm.

‘I can’t see any star,’ he said, returning.

‘Well, I can,’ said Boris.

Checkers ran off again, determined to find it. If Boris could see it, then Checkers must be able to. It was unheard of for Boris to have spotted anything before Checkers. But the snow was falling thicker and faster than ever, swirling into his eyes and blinding him.

‘What star – where?’ he said eventually, frustrated.

‘Just there,’ said Boris, lifting his nose, but though Checkers looked and looked, he couldn’t see anything other than the swirling whiteness of the snow.

‘It is a star we’re supposed to be following, isn’t it?’ said Boris.

‘Well – yes,’ said Checkers.

‘Well, then,’ said Boris, getting up, ‘you’d better follow me.’

He tried not to, but he couldn’t help feeling just a little bit smug. This was the first time ever in their long friendship that he had led the way, and he could tell that his friend wasn’t happy about it from the way Checkers kept snapping at his tail.

‘Get a move on,’ he said. ‘We haven’t got all day.’ And ‘You’re sure it’s a star you can see, Boris, and not more of your mum’s food playing tricks on you again?’

But Boris wouldn’t be goaded. He kept on trotting to the right, keeping the star clear and luminous and steady in his mind, and Checkers, vastly disgruntled, was forced to follow slowly behind.

As soon as Flo could see her own house again she felt better. Her relief at being home made her guilt fade rapidly, but she was so unnerved by what had happened that she didn’t even notice that all the doors and windows were still open.

‘Thank goodness for that,’ she muttered to herself, stepping over the threshold. ‘All that nasty “quest” business has given me a headache!’

The only thing Flo wanted was her nice warm bed. She hurried towards the front room, not even bothering to glance over her shoulder in case Henry was there. Henry, she had decided, was the least of her problems.

She pushed the door open and was surprised to find that it led to another corridor.

That’s funny,
she thought.
I’m sure the lounge was there when I left it.

However, there was another door at the end of this corridor and Flo, still dazed and freezing from the storm, trotted towards it.

This time, as she pushed the door open, she could have sworn that the house gave itself a little shake and
rejigged
itself somehow. There, in front of her, was another passageway, bending round to the left.

Definitely perplexed (Had she come to the wrong house? Had she come into the right house by the wrong door?), Flo stepped warily into the passageway. She felt almost too tired to be nervous. All she wanted was to lie down. And there ahead of her was the door to the lounge. She was sure she’d got it right this time – she recognized the peculiar handle, which was shaped like a snake.

Thankfully, she pushed it open, and indeed this time there was the lounge, looking much as she remembered it, with the fire flickering brightly in the hearth.

At last,
thought Flo, crossing the room gratefully. There was her bed, and the coffee table, and the chintz covers on the little settee, and there was the mirror in its usual place. Henry was nowhere to be seen, and for this Flo was profoundly grateful. She didn’t know where Myrtle was and she was almost too weary to care. She flopped exhaustedly on to her bed, where, despite the rattling of windows and the creaking of doors, she began, very slowly, to relax. After all, she was safe and warm now, not lost in a horrid cold storm. She didn’t know where her friends were, but she hoped they were safe and had been sensible enough to make their own way home. She told herself that she could hardly be responsible if they hadn’t and were foolish enough to go risking their lives on some terrible quest that involved leaping into voids and battling wolves. Whatever happened now, there was nothing that Flo could do about it, except try to get some sleep and wait for the storm to be over. And thank her lucky stars that nothing dangerous could happen to her here.

Unfortunately for Flo, she hadn’t quite closed her eyes when the mirror started to lean towards her.

A cold shudder ran along her spine. A bark rose to her throat and stuck there. She couldn’t remember her dream, but she knew with absolute certainty that this had happened before. She wanted very badly to close her eyes, but couldn’t. There, in the mirror, were the three ancient hags. One was knitting, one was holding a ball of wool and one had an enormous pair of scissors.

Run,
Flo told herself, but she couldn’t move. She remembered suddenly what Jenny had said. Was this the Thread of Destiny? And if so, was she supposed to take it and use it to restrain the great wolves, who were even now galloping towards the sun and moon?

No way,
she thought.

Then one of the hags spoke, in an ancient, creaking voice.

‘Sisters,’ she said, ‘is it time?’

‘It is time,’ the other two said, like a chorus.

‘Then why doesn’t she get on with it?’

‘Don’t worry,’ said the second sister, in the same creaking, rusty voice that sounded oddly familiar. ‘She knows what she has to do.’ And she held the ball of wool out towards Flo.

At the same time, the surface of the mirror changed. It rippled, then wreathed like smoke. Flo stared at it in anguish. They were talking about her. Could they see her?

As if in answer, the one holding the ball of wool raised milky, sightless eyes in her direction.

‘What are you waiting for?’ she asked.

Flo gave a yelp that turned into a strangled whine. Trembling all over, she rose to her feet. The mirror wreathed before her. She could run, but there was nowhere to hide.
She glanced all the way round the room, but the door seemed to have disappeared. There was no way out. So, in fact, she couldn’t even run.

Trapped,
she thought.
I’m trapped.
Through the cloudy surface of the mirror she could still see the claw-like hand holding out the ball of wool. There was nothing else to do. Summoning whatever she had instead of courage, Flo leapt at the surface of the mirror.

Jenny ploughed on, walking northwards into the swirling whiteness of a storm that would take her directly to Ginnungagap, the void.

The cold got colder. The whiteness got whiter, and swirled even more. It was hard to see or even think. Jenny’s ears were blasted backwards by the wind. She felt as though the tips of them were freezing off, but soon she couldn’t feel them at all. She didn’t even miss them, because it was as though the storm had got inside her somehow, and was howling and raging inside her skull. When the ground ended beneath her feet, she didn’t stop to think, but plunged headlong into the void.

Silence.

It was a silence so dense she could almost feel it. It wrapped itself around her like a thick blanket that was, strangely, neither reassuring nor warm. If anything, it was even colder than before, and as the sounds of the storm died away inside her, Jenny began to wonder if she had left her ears behind. She couldn’t see or feel anything either, not even the sensation of falling, and the silence itself was so complete it was as though sound itself had never existed.

After a while of seeing, hearing and feeling nothing, it was hard to believe in her own existence. Perhaps she had died and this was death, she thought, and then reminded herself that she was at least still thinking.

Suddenly, all around her the nothingness began to swirl like a freezing fog. In fact, it was a freezing fog, and Jenny was travelling into the heart of it. With a pang of fear, she realized where she was.

Niflheim.

The far northern region of darkness and cold, where the bitter winter of despair breathed icy fogs of desolation. Niflheim, containing Helheim, realm of death, and Nastrond, the shore of corpses.

And even as she realized this, the stony ground rushed up to meet her. Her paws struck frozen rock and she fell along it somehow, bumping and scraping herself, until the angle corrected itself with a lurch and she was standing up. A little way ahead of her, through the mist, there was a single root of an enormous tree.

And propped up against the root of the tree was her master, Baldur.

Despite her frozen paws, Jenny broke into a stumbling run. She tried to bark, but it came out as a strangled yelp that was quickly muffled by the fog. And as she ran she had the nightmarish feeling that she wasn’t getting anywhere. And that something was wrong, terribly wrong, with Baldur.

He seemed to be entwined in the root itself. His limbs were twisted into positions that should have been agonizing, while his hair, frost-stiffened, seemed part of the twisted pattern of the bark. Jenny ran with all her might, straining
every muscle and nerve, but either Baldur was much further away than she had thought or the tree itself was moving, because the distance between them did not close. And at last she stopped, in terrible despair, lifted her voice and cried,
‘Master!’

And the next moment she was stumbling over his frozen, lichen-encrusted feet.

‘Where are we now, then?’ asked Checkers.

This was at least the fifth time he had asked the same question, along with ‘Are we nearly there yet?’ (seven times) and ‘Can you still see that star?’ (four). Boris had given up answering. He could still see the star, but he had no answer to the other two questions. He rather suspected that Checkers was trying to annoy him because he wasn’t the leader and was forced to go along at Boris’s slow pace.

As far as the first question was concerned, they seemed to be in a wood. Boris couldn’t remember when the first trees had started to appear, but now there were more and more of them, springing up dense and fast. More like a forest than a wood, even, Boris thought, and he tried to remember where in the city there might be room for a forest.

At least the snow was disappearing, so that was one good thing. It had been replaced by the dank dripping of water from trailing branches, which was less good, and had a rather depressing effect. Twigs crackled underfoot and the light had drained away like water from a sink. The holes in tree trunks looked like open mouths and the lichen covering the bark of tree stumps made extraordinary
patterns, like distorted faces. Everything was very still.

‘Gives me the creeps, this place,’ muttered Checkers, and Boris had to agree with him.

It was so silent and there was no sign of life. Even though Boris wasn’t used to forests, he’d imagined that something must be living there – rabbits, birds, even beetles. But nothing stirred.

Until they saw the shadow.

It flickered in front of them briefly, then disappeared along a bend in the path.

Checkers charged after it, barking for all he was worth. He skidded to a halt, still barking, when he realized he couldn’t see anything, then plunged into some undergrowth. He emerged from a tangle of thistles, then dived off in the other direction. By the time Boris caught up with him, he had almost barked himself hoarse. Each bark fell into the air with a slightly muffled sound.

‘Did you find anything?’ Boris asked, when Checkers had finally finished.

‘Er – no,’ said Checkers.

Boris lowered his nose to the ground and sniffed. There was a curious, distinctive smell, like ashes and mould. And like dog, though not any dog Boris had ever scented before. Unless it was a huge, ancient dog that had been lying around for a few hundred years in ashes and mould.

‘Are you looking for me?’
said a huge, black and rather mouldy-looking dog.

Checkers leapt into the air in surprise, then barked so hard he almost turned himself inside out. Boris said nothing. He felt a great awe. An awe that turned his bones to water, bowed his head and rooted his feet to the ground. The big
dog was bigger, even, than Gentleman Jim. He had great eyes like calves’ eyes and in the centre of each was a scarlet flame. His coat was like a black fungus and he seemed to have emerged from the earth itself. Checkers fell over himself, barking, then ran round the great dog in decreasing circles until the huge hound raised one of its shaggy paws and pressed him to the ground.

‘Gnnumpphh,’ he said.

‘Who are you?’ Boris asked slowly.

‘My name is Black Shuck,’
said the great dog in a voice that seemed to come directly from the bowels of the earth.

From the position he was in, pressed to the earth, Checkers couldn’t help noticing the scorch marks around the black dog’s feet. Where he stood, the earth was smouldering, and where he had touched him, Checkers’s coat was singed.

‘Hey,’ he said, struggling out from beneath the enormous paw. ‘How do you do that?’