In The Grip Of Old Winter Page 24

  “The barghest,” said Peter and Wulfwyn together.

  Blue lightning streaked overhead and where it struck, sparks ignited and scattered high and low, fast as bullets.

  Peter saw, in that light’s brief moment, the barghest gather speed as it hurtled towards them, head down, shoulders hunched and teeth bared, ready to rip.

  As the lightning flickered and went out, the skin-walkers slipped from their robes to reveal their true forms. Wulfwyn choked and Godwine uttered a strange guttural cry.

  Blue lightning crackled, complex as a web, with threads that singed the hair and burnt through leather and cloth. The rat darted in and out between the barghest’s legs and nipped at its ankles. The eagle took flight and in the narrow space swerved and swooped in tight circles above the dog’s massive head. The sabre-toothed tiger and the boar rushed the beast.

  The lightning flickered again and went out. The sabre-toothed tiger roared and the eagle shrieked.

  “Quick,” said Peter. He stretched out his hand and ran to the side of the hallway until his palm brushed across the wall’s lumpy surface. “We can get past the barghest and reach the big room.” He hoped that Wulfwyn and Godwine followed, but the growls and snarls and roars from the fight made it hard to hear. “This way,” and he set off down the hallway, one hand against the wall, the staff held out before him.

  The blue lightning flashed again. The boar lay pinned under the barghest’s paws and the sabre-toothed tiger darted left and right as it lunged for the neck. The eagle swooped, talons stretched to claw at the eyes and head. The rat panted, out of the fight, its flank gashed and bloody.

  In the sudden light and already past the fight, Peter ran. The heavy thump of the men’s boots reassured him that Wulfwyn and Godwine followed. Bear too, he thought, for he didn’t see him in the fight. No sight or sound of Snake and Fox at all.

  The lightning faltered, sparked, its power spent. In its final burst, the kitchen doorway pulsed as its wooden surround reflected the blue light and Peter sprinted. Darkness came and he lost confidence to run at speed.

  Wulfwyn called. “Take care. We do not know what lies ahead.”

  Peter slowed to a walk and swept the staff before him in a wide arc. With a loud crack, it struck wood and he halted. “This is the kitchen. There’s a passage to the left into the big room.”

  He took a step to the side in what he hoped might be the right direction. His eyes ached as he stared into the dark. Wulfwyn and Godwine breathed hard as they closed in behind.

  Bear’s deep voice, next to his ear, made him jump. “Let me go first.”

  Coarse fur brushed against Peter’s hand as Bear went past. Peter gripped his staff tight. If the spae-wife cast fire and burned the manor or caused a flood to wash them out, then their attempt to rescue Leonor pitted against their attempt to survive meant certain defeat. To fight to live or to fight to vanquish a foe, both needed strength and focus and only one of them might succeed.

  Light, dim but white, like a strange dawn, bloomed somewhere ahead. It lit the passage walls. Bear halted and swung his head from side to side as he sniffed the air.

  ***

  The light brightened and a shadow, dark and swift, attacked. The gloom made it hard to focus on its random jumps as it leapt over Bear’s head. The breeze, as it flew past Peter, blew on his cheeks.

  With a cry, the carrier landed on Wulfwyn and Godwine and they tumbled over in a confusion of arms and legs. Godwine thrust his sword where he thought the carrier landed, but it sliced through air and made no contact. Wulfwyn scrambled to his feet and half-ran, half-crouched back down the passage.

  Bear shouted. “Protect our backs.” He roared and the ground trembled when, with a sudden burst of speed, he ran into the large room. Peter sprinted after, his staff raised ready to strike.

  The white light no longer shone pure, but dimmed and tarnished with a hue of green. Leonor lay upon her back, pinned by her wrists and ankles and tied with twine to large wooden pegs driven into the floor. Around her in a circle lay long slender branches. In the centre of the circle, upon a stool made of more branches lashed together with twine and raised high above the floor, sat the spae-wife. The light came from the branches and pulsed as if powered by a heart. Around the spae-wife’s neck, the seal-amulet blazed bright red and the silver marks shone clear and hard.

  The spae-wife’s teeth clacked as her jaw swung up and down in mockery of speech. She pointed a bony finger, with its black and twisted nail, straight at Bear. A detonation, like a bomb, exploded at his feet and threw him backwards.

  The roar of the retort made Peter’s ears buzz. I need a knife to cut Leonor free. Unless he knocked the pegs out with his staff. He rushed forward, but as he stepped across the first branch, green light flared and his head whipped back as a blow, hard as a punch, hit him in the face.

  He crashed onto his back and his eyes and nose tingled and he thought he might pass out. Aware of movement, he squinted and focused on Godwine as he slashed left and right with his sword at the air above the circle of branches. Green and white sparks scattered, as if he struck stone, and he clutched his elbow and fell back.

  The spae-wife’s eyes bulged, the thin skin that covered her skull hung in tatters, her skeletal fingers curled to form strange shapes. Faded and ragged garments covered the little flesh that clung to her bones. With a start, Peter understood that these must be the remains of the spae-wife’s previous captive. Then what was the spae-wife? What did she look like? How did she live inside another’s body? Where did she live?

  Peter rolled onto his side and sat up.

  “Come back,” said Bear.

  Peter crawled on his hands and knees to where Bear crouched in the shadows on the far side of the room. Godwine followed, his face lined with pain as he held his elbow.

  “What can we do?” said Peter. “There’s an invisible barrier.”

  Leonor lay as if asleep, her head to one side, her eyes shut.

  “That staff you carry,” said Bear. “Return to the fire outside the manor and thrust it into the flames. Hold it there, though its touch will be hot. Do not let go. It will not burn. Take care that no part of you touches the fire. Let the staff cool and when it is as cold as it is now, pull it free.”

  Peter rolled the staff backwards and forwards in his palms. “How will that help?”

  Bear lowered his huge head until his brown eyes came level with Peter’s. “You have heard me speak of one of our kindred who, overwhelmed by the spae-wife’s attack, perished?”

  Peter nodded.

  “His soul departed, but his form survived. Bring him to me.”

  “You mean,” said Peter, “he’s in my time?”

  “Use the staff as you did the charred branch in the wood.”

  “But who...?”

  The spae-wife shrieked and a wave of white sparks erupted out of the air. Peter slammed to the floor and rolled into a tight ball. The sparks hit, hard as hail and stung his skin even through his anorak and jeans. Bear growled and Godwine moaned. Each spark hurt worse than the one before and Peter screamed and wriggled back to escape the assault.

  Bear shouted. “Run, Peter,” and he roared and charged, head down, at the spae-wife.

  The sparks vanished as the spae-wife, distracted by Bear’s attack, rose, crouched and bent double upon her high stool.

  Peter’s eyes blurred with tears of pain, but he staggered to his feet, picked up the staff and sprinted towards the passage.

  Bear skidded to a halt just before the circle of branches, rose up onto his hind legs and roared again. The air shook with rage. Godwine stumbled towards the branches too, but on the other side from Bear and the spae-wife swivelled from one to the other, uncertain where to aim her next attack.

  Peter reached the passage where Wulfwyn waited.

  “The carrier fled,” said Wulfwyn.

  Peter panted and wiped his eyes. “I’ve got to reach the fire.”

  Wulfwyn gripped hold of his shoulder. “Come.”r />
  “Is the barghest still here?”

  “I do not know,” said Wulfwyn. “There is no sound from any beast.”

  Did the skin-walkers die? “Why did the carrier run away?”

  Wulfwyn’s breath came hard and fast. “I do not know.”

  Peter stared wide-eyed as they hurried through the dark. “I have to return to my own time, but I need to put the staff into the fire first. I have to find the skin-walker who died.” His foot slipped with a sudden twist and he stumbled.

  Wulfwyn halted. “What is it?”

  “Something...” Peter bent and patted the floor at his feet. His fingers brushed against folds of soft material. “It’s one of the skin-walkers’ robes. They must still be animals and birds.” If they still lived.

  Wulfwyn muttered. “I did not believe possible such as I saw. The land is changed in ways that need new meanings.”

  “It’s the spae-wife’s fault,” said Peter. “This all started when she escaped from... from my time.” Where did she hide? In that strange little house above the battlements - or somewhere else?

  “She did not invade these shores with Norman knights,” said Wulfwyn. “Or set a king upon the throne whose lands lie beyond the sea.” He started forward. “Come, brighter eyes than mine might see well in this dark.”

  The door’s outline, up ahead, glimmered grey and Peter ran faster.

  Wulfwyn pulled him back. “Wait. We do not know what lies beyond.” He approached the fur, stopped, listened and then swift and sudden, stepped outside, his knife held close and ready to thrust. “Come.”

  The skin-walkers fire burned. No twig cracked or branch hissed with sap. As they ran towards it, Wulfwyn spun one way and then another.

  Peter said, “Perhaps they’re all lying dead in the manor and we’ve just run right past them.”

  “In the dark, there is little to show what we might have passed.”

  Peter stood before the silent flames. “I mustn’t touch the fire.” The distance from the toes of his boots to the heap of white ash at the fire’s base measured just a few inches, but his skin didn’t sear or his clothes singe from any heat.

  He took hold of the staff with both hands, raised it above his head and then plunged it into the flames. Sparks scattered as twigs and branches snapped in silence. Straight away, the staff warmed. How hot might it be before it started to cool? He wished he’d remembered to put on his wet gloves.

  Wulfwyn, his back to the fire, whispered. “The carrier.”

  Peter glanced over his shoulder. “Where?”

  “Under the tower.”

  Peter didn’t see him, just dark shadows and then one shadow shifted. “Is he going to attack?” The staff burned hotter and Peter loosened his grip.

  “He watches,” said Wulfwyn. “He knows we see him.”

  Peter faced the fire and winced. The staff didn’t glow red or smoke and no flames snaked around its length, yet its surface burned hotter and hotter. Peter tapped his fingertips against the wood to stay in contact. “Perhaps the carrier knows I’m going back to my time. He might stop me, or try to come with me. Can you fight him?”

  Wulfwyn tensed. “We shall see.”

  The carrier clambered out from under the tower. At the same time, a growl rumbled, low and deep, from the other side of the fire.

  ***

  With a crack that made Peter jump, the staff writhed in his fingers and changed shape. The young wood glistened as black and gnarled as the charred branch. The staff’s smooth bark concertinaed into ridges, like solid waves. It cooled fast and he held it first in his fingers and then in his palms.

  The barghest crouched, ears flat against the top of its head and prowled closer. The carrier crept in from the opposite side. Peter gripped the staff tight as the heat diminished.

  Wulfwyn protected Peter’s back. “Go where you must.”

  Peter willed the staff to be cold. “You can’t fight them both at once.”

  “I will keep them back so that you can escape.”

  “The skin-walkers must be close.” Peter peered left and right into the trees.

  The carrier darted forward and Wulfwyn lunged with his knife. The barghest quivered as it prepared to pounce.

  “The fates speed your journey,” said Wulfwyn. “Do not wait.”

  Cold at last, Peter pulled the staff out of the fire. Gnarled and twisted, its end tapered to a point. He thrust it at the carrier who ran at them again and Wulfwyn arced his knife in a sideways sweep.

  Wulfwyn yelled. “Go!”

  Peter struck the end of the staff against the ground and shouted. “Granddad.”

  Wulfwyn, the fire, the barghest, the carrier, the trees, the tower and the manor splintered and passed from sight. The wind keened high and sharp and night and day juddered, as if broken by time. Peter swayed, dizzy and sick and shut his eyes. Silence, except for the crackle of a fire, and as his stomach settled, he dared to look.

  He stood in the middle of The Hall. A fire burned in the hearth and the lights on the Christmas tree twinkled. Joy, as satisfying as a hot bath, spread from his chest and through his body to the very tips of his fingers and toes.

  The warmth of the fire relaxed his muscles and eased all of his fears, so that he wanted to lie down and sleep. He tightened his grip on the staff until the bones in his hand ached against the hard wood. He’d left Wulfwyn to fight alone and Leonor slept as one already dead. A skin-walker died in Leonor’s time, though its form survived and he guessed that the form must be that of a wolf.

  He ran out of The Hall, down the passage and into the kitchen. The wolf, its mouth fixed in a permanent snarl, glared from the top of the sideboard. From its size, it looked impossible to move. He dragged a kitchen chair across, climbed up, but even at full stretch he didn’t reach anywhere near high enough.

  Peter said out loud; “I need a stepladder, or something tall.” He’d seen a stepladder somewhere in the kitchen - by the back door, in the alcove covered by an old green curtain. He jumped off the chair.

  With three quick strides, he darted around the table, reached the alcove and swept aside the curtain. The stepladder leaned against the far wall and he dragged it out and across the kitchen floor. The metal feet scraped over the tiles. He opened the legs, but the catch to keep the legs secure proved too stiff for his fingers to click into position. He’d have to risk it collapsing under him and he scrambled up the metal steps.

  The back door opened and granddad stomped his boots clear of snow and came into the kitchen. “Peter! Back already?”

  “Hello, granddad. I’ve got to take the wolf.”

  “What?”

  Peter thought that someone moved just outside the door, for a shadow skimmed across the snow.

  Granddad came closer, his hands raised to encourage Peter to climb down. “Look - I think you should stay here now. We’re all that concerned, what with your dad and all... I see you still have that medallion.”

  Peter swallowed. “Is dad at the...” He didn’t have time. “I’ve got to help Wulfwyn. He’s fighting the carrier and the barghest.” He took hold of the wolf’s front paw, placed the end of the staff on the sideboard’s wide shelf, shut his eyes and said, “Leonor.”

  The wolf’s fur, cold and hard as bristles, softened. The stiff ankle joint loosened. Peter heard a soft thump as the wolf flopped down, no longer a specimen stuffed with sawdust, but an animal with guts and blood and claws.

  Peter opened his eyes. The manor, the tower and the skin-walkers fire stood further away. Confused, it took him a moment to understand that although he’d returned to The Hall in granddad’s time, he’d then run through to the kitchen. That meant the staff let him travel to wherever he wanted, whenever he wanted, but he appeared in the same place in the time he travelled to as from where he started. It gave him much more freedom then having to walk to the charred branch in the wood.

  Odd though, that he’d grown too. He wobbled and gripped the wolf’s paw tighter. The stepladder leaned at an a
ngle into the sideboard which leaned back against the stepladder. Several plates on the shelves slid from the vertical to the horizontal, though none fell or broke. The wolf lay as if asleep, its mouth and eyes closed.

  Peter placed his hand on the ladder’s shiny steps, steadied his balance and climbed down fast. Huge snowflakes drifted past, slow and steady.

  Wulfwyn, the barghest and the carrier sprang into view from around the other side of the fire. Wulfwyn parried every attack, either with a lunge or a wide sweep of his knife. Yet he defended with every stroke, one step back at a time, one side protected by the fire. A lucky bite from the barghest or a jab from the carrier and he’d be down and finished.

  Peter didn’t know what to do. He’d brought Wolf as Bear asked - now what? Did Bear want him in the manor? What needed to be done to make Wolf wake?

  The carrier fell, defeated by another strike from Wulfwyn, but as he rolled out of reach and flipped over onto his stumps, he spotted Peter. With his arms used like crutches, he sped across the short space between them.

  Peter lifted his staff. He must strike first. His shoulders brushed against the stepladder’s legs and he climbed the first two steps backwards to gain some height.

  The carrier leapt and Peter brought the staff down onto the man’s head, but too soon and he missed, lost his balance and with the momentum of the blow, slipped. He plunged to the ground and landed on his side.

  The carrier hit the stepladder with such force that it tipped, rocked and then fell with a crash. The carrier fell too, tangled in its legs. The sideboard, now unsupported, teetered at a sharper angle and the plates slid from their shelves and dropped into the snow. The sideboard’s speed increased and it slammed into the stepladder and the carrier with a loud crunch. The carrier screamed once.

  The wolf rolled off the top shelve and into the snow at Peter’s side.

  Peter, winded from his fall, sat up. The barghest, head raised, ears pricked, stepped back out of Wulfwyn’s range, all its attention focused on Wolf.