The Nethergrim (27 page)

Vithric’s spell was cleverly done, supremely clever—the cost of the spell, the agonies of the victims, were being absorbed by the Nethergrim. To block it directly would be beyond any wizard ever born, so Edmund chose to join it instead. The bolgugs guarding Vithric screamed and gnashed their teeth. If the spell did not kill him, the bolgugs would.

Edmund took one last look at Katherine’s sleeping face.

“I TAKE THIS COST AND PLACE IT ON MYSELF.”
He matched the cadence of Vithric’s chant.
“I HOLD THEIR PAIN TO ME, I HEAR THEIR THOUGHTS IN MINE. I HOLD THEIR PAIN.”
He inverted Vithric’s signs, traced out the signs of Life and Making.
“I TAKE THIS COST AND PLACE IT ON MYSELF.”

It worked. It hurt, it hurt, but it worked.

Edmund buckled, flooded with the dying torment of Tilly Miller. He felt her trying to hold on to one happy image, her mother smiling down on her as a baby, felt her trying to make peace with the life she would never get to have. He heard her shrieks in his own wailing voice. Somewhere underneath it was the awareness of the pain in his own body. He tasted something salty and metallic in his mouth.

Vithric’s smile broke. His eyes went wide in alarm.

Edmund held the pain, denying the Nethergrim her feast. He stumbled up toward the star and reached for Tilly’s withered hand. He held it tight as she died.

Vithric’s spell lost its power.

Everything stopped.

The orange eyes fixed on Edmund, and a mouth formed in the smoke beneath, as if by chance.
So be it, Edmund Bale.

Vithric let out a scream of frustration and rage. The eyes dissolved. The tendrils shivered and broke apart, and rose toward the ceiling, like smoke should.

Chapter
28

E
dmund breathed. His heart beat—fast, but steady and strong. Vithric crouched, huddled and shaking behind the cauldron. The Nethergrim rose as a formless wisp of smoke between them. Her Voice spoke no more inside Edmund’s mind.

Edmund spent a dizzy moment wondering why he was still alive. His spell had worked. It had not killed him, but it had cost him—a little blood, a flood of tears and nightmares enough to last a lifetime.

He looked around him. John Marshal lay sprawled atop the corpses of the last two bolgugs, the sword spilled from his injured hand.

Vithric moaned and struggled to his feet. Edmund met eyes with him. He should have seized the moment to attack, but only words came: “You were a hero.”

Vithric snarled and leapt across the star. Edmund drew his knife—but Vithric was faster. A punch to the gut doubled Edmund over and sent him staggering back, knocking cauldron, book and lectern down in a heap. His knife skittered out across the floor. Before he had a chance to retrieve it, he felt Vithric’s hands around his neck.

“A lesson on the subject of heroes.” As a man in his healthy prime, Vithric was of good girth and strength, brimming with a fierce energy. “Heroes often die rather young.” Edmund struggled and kicked, but could not get free, could not breathe. An explosion of red blotted his vision—the curses Vithric hissed at him seemed to come from farther and farther away.

Then there came a huff of wind, a thud and a gasp of pain. Edmund felt the grip around his neck go slack. He staggered back and fell, heaving for air. Vithric stood above him, swaying, clutching at the arrow driven deep into his shoulder.

“Get away from my brother.”

Edmund twisted to look behind him. Geoffrey advanced, another arrow held at full draw.

Vithric curled his lip. His fingers twitched—then he turned and bolted into the gloom through the door behind him.

Geoffrey rushed to Edmund’s side. “Did he hurt you? Are you hurt?”

“No—not hurt. Not bad, at least.” The agony of the spell shuddered through Edmund, a wound that only he could see and feel. He sat up with Geoffrey’s help and looked about him—children waking to scream on the rays of the star, the rotting, broken treasures crawling with vermin, the thick smoke rising from a red-orange coal fire that made monstrous sport of their shadows. The fire brightened—some of the coals had fallen on the book and set it alight. Shrieks and flapping footfalls resounded from the many passages that led into the chamber, getting louder by the moment.

“Hurry, pick them up.” Edmund shoved Geoffrey across the star and lurched the other way. It was as he had hoped—and feared. Five of the seven children had been spared, but two had been taken by the spell and lay dead of old age. A toothless, ancient man lay next to Tilly Miller, his face a mass of wrinkles. He had twisted almost double in his final pains.

Katherine was already moving, rolling over to reach for her fallen sword, so Edmund leapt across to the next ray of the star and found a girl his own age. He helped her to stand; Geoffrey did the same for a boy who was perhaps a year younger.

The girl fell weeping beside the body of the toothless old man. “Elwy!” She seized his wrinkled arm. “He’s seven, he’s only seven!”

Edmund looked at the children who had survived the spell, then back at the two who had died. A boy of seven, and Tilly Miller, youngest of Geoffrey’s friends.

Understanding broke upon him—the spell took the youngest first.

“Up!” He dragged the girl away from the corpse. “Cry later—we’ve got to run!”

“Someone get my papa.” Katherine turned through all directions with her blade held out, watching each of the entrances. Tom sat up on his own and pried a spear from the grip of a fallen bolgug. The sounds of approaching footsteps grew louder, seeming to converge from every side.

Edmund reached down for John Marshal and found him alive but groggy, blood running free through his grizzled hair. He got a shoulder under John’s arm and helped him to stand, but before they had taken a step, a door beside them burst wide and more bolgugs rushed through with their spears thrust out before them. There was nowhere to run—even if he let John drop, he could not dodge away in time. He stood frozen in a hopeless stare at the point of the spear rushing in for his belly.

A blade flashed out, knocking the spear point down to strike the floor. The bolgug had just enough time to look aside before the blade swept up and cut its throat.

It was Katherine—she stepped between Edmund and the next bolgug, and drove her heel at the outside of its knee. There was a sickening snap, and the bolgug stumbled forward into the thrust of her sword. She gripped the dying creature by the shoulder and turned it, using its body as a momentary shield so that she could spare Edmund a glance. “Which way out?”

Edmund got his bearings. “This way!” He hauled John toward the door through which they had entered. Tom took up a position at Katherine’s side, holding back the bolgugs that tumbled in over the corpses of their leaders. Edmund had never seen such a look of fury on Tom’s face, nor dreamed he ever would. It saddened him, somehow.

“Just hold that spear out, Tom. Keep them under threat.” Katherine edged sideways, circling the bolgugs with a fierce light in her eyes. “The rest of you, go with Edmund.” The girl and the boy—two of the kids from Roughy, Edmund could only guess—followed him toward the doorway through which he had come.

The remaining bolgugs formed up across the chamber—two with spears and two with short, heavy thrusting swords. One fell with Geoffrey’s arrow in its bulging yellow eye, but the rest came on at a rush, leading with their snapping, gnashing jaws.

“Everyone behind me!” Katherine rocked onto the balls of her feet. She feinted a lunge with the point of her sword, halting the charge of the first two bolgugs and acting as though she did not see the third coming in on her flank until she reversed and slammed its spear aside. It spun away—and dropped with an arrow in its throat.

“That’s my last.” Geoffrey ducked back behind the guard of Tom’s spear. The two remaining bolgugs pressed a fierce attack, stabbing and ducking, looking for a gap. One of them screeched and dove forward, swinging with hungry abandon. Katherine pulled in her blade to twist its thrust, using its uncalculated force to draw it close and then reversing to give it a vicious crack on the mouth with the pommel of her sword. It staggered away, clutching at its broken teeth and howling in pain.

Tom pedaled backward, jabbing out his spear to keep the bolgug on his flank at bay. Geoffrey raced through the doorway ahead. Edmund felt less of John’s weight on his shoulder—he seemed to be coming awake and regaining his strength. A few more steps and they were free of the chamber of the Nethergrim.

A scream drew Edmund’s glance aside. The bolgug on their flank had turned from Tom and gotten hold of the girl from Roughy by her waist-length braid. It jerked in its arm and snapped her to the ground, then opened its mouth to take her throat.

Katherine wheeled and flew into a sprint, ignoring the broken-toothed bolgug though it had recovered and pressed at her flank. It gave her a slash to the thigh; she cried out but finished her strike, leaping off with her other leg in a flying lunge to bring the girl’s attacker down.

Before Edmund knew what he was doing, he had dumped John Marshal through the doorway and turned to charge bare-handed through the chamber. Katherine drove her sword into her target’s back and crashed to the floor on top of it, then twisted and tried to draw out her blade in time to block another swing from the last bolgug. Too late—the bolgug raised its sword to skewer her down to the floor. Edmund could only cry out her name.

The blow never landed. A spear whiffed past and took the bolgug smack in the chest. It coughed, waved its arms and pitched over backward.

“Pick her up!” John Marshal slumped, his arm still extended from the action of the throw, and then Tom pulled him back inside the passage. A chittering, scraping noise sounded from somewhere past the dying fire, shrieks and more footsteps approaching at a charge.

“Katherine.” Edmund got his shoulder under hers. The wound looked bad, too much bright running blood. She bit her lip, her face twisted in a grimace.

She put her sword in his hands. “Let’s go.” She pushed herself standing on her good leg. Tom grabbed hold of her other side, and they all staggered out in one battered huddle.

The grating calls of the bolgugs seemed to come from everywhere, resounding up and down the passages, sometimes seeming to approach but never reaching the tunnel through which they scrabbled and ran. The darkness was total—Edmund kicked something hard and heavy that he could not see. He hopped in pain for a moment, then set down his foot before Katherine’s weight brought him to the floor.

“Where from here?” Geoffrey’s voice bounced wide in the library ahead. “I can’t see anything!”

“Straight on, between the shelves!” Edmund coughed—the hard grip of Katherine’s arm around his chest sent arcs of pain through his ribs, though at the same time it was the best thing he had ever felt in his life. “Everyone hold hands. Follow me.” There was no time to doubt his memory—he dodged up through stair and doorway, clanging the sword on the walls as he pumped his arms to gain speed. The children clasped tight to his shirt, moving as one with arms over shoulders and hands at hems and sleeves. Katherine hopped along with almost all of her weight on her good leg, puffing from the effort of their long ascent. By the time they reached the ladder in the hearth, the cries of the bolgugs had died away to wailing echoes.

“It’s up here.” Edmund steered them over to the ladder and felt out for the rungs. “Geoffrey, you’re first. Turn right at the top and keep crawling. Go, all of you.”

He felt them shuffle past, one by one, until only John Marshal remained with him below. They could not see each other—they did not need to see each other.

“Well done, Edmund.” John squeezed his hand, then turned to climb.

Edmund held out the sword to guard their escape, though he could see nothing of the passage behind him and had heard no sounds of pursuit. He grabbed hold of a rung, and could not resist casting a defiant look behind him at the darkness. “You’re a liar. You didn’t kill me!”

Not yet.

The answer stole his triumph, and propelled him up the ladder as fast as he could go. Tom helped him into the tunnel at the top. The children slithered and shuffled along in a dark silent line before him, and though they did not need to hold hands anymore, they still did.

Geoffrey laughed for joy. “Daylight!” They gripped each other hard—elation passed between them like a shock. The glimmer ahead rose from mirage to formless glow to the shine of morning.

Edmund came out last, helped by Tom. They all staggered about for a moment like a pack of drunks, then fell heaped on each other in the chilly light of an autumn dawn. When Jumble came barking up the slope, they did not even have the strength to seem surprised.

The girl from Roughy cradled her brother close—it was impossible to tell if she wept for relief or for loss. “How did you find us?”

“Tell you later.” Edmund sank on his haunches. He let the sword fall from his hands. The strength of panic left him; he had very nearly died. Pins and needles shot up from his fingers and toes, then a chill and a wave of sickness. The tortured memories born of absorbing the spell circled at the edges of his thoughts, gathering in whenever he closed his eyes. Jumble came up to greet him, to lick his face and shake paws, but succeeded instead in toppling him over.

“It’s not that bad.” Katherine tried to shove Tom away from her leg. “Help the others first! Help Papa!”

“Stop it.” Tom knocked her hand aside and felt around the edges of the wound. Katherine gasped.

“It’s not that bad,” said Tom.

“That’s what I just said!”

“You’ll be fine if we stop the bleeding.” Tom looked about him. The girl from Roughy pulled off the kerchief that covered her hair and held it out.

“Thank you.” Tom took it and bound the wound. Katherine winced, then sank down on her stomach. “Papa, are you hurt?”

“I think I’ll survive, child.” John struggled to his feet. He took hold of the board and slammed it down over the hole.

Edmund slumped back on the broken scree. The wind blew hard—clouds ripped and raced across the sky toward the sun. He looked over at his brother, then at the whippy bowshaft in his hands. “Is that my longbow?”

Geoffrey snorted. “Not anymore.”