Chapter Thirteen

The slate grey clouds hung low over Trewalder, promising snow. Lamps burnt low in their iron cages around the market place. The flames left dark soot marks on the glass as they burnt steadily, shedding a warm light in the twilight. The lamplighter reached his wick up to the last one before hooking the thick, rippled glass back into place. He pulled his cloak tighter around himself and strode off into the dusk. The Boy watched him go, before turning away his gaze lingering on the glass which seemed everywhere in the bustling town.

'Here, take this,' Slipper said breaking in on his thoughts as she half-chucked the Boy a parcel of food. She laughed as he sniffed it. 'Go on, it's not poisoned!'

'What is it?' He asked as he peeked inside the soft pitta bread.

'A kebab. Take a bite. You'll like it,' she said, beginning to wander away through the market. 'Come on. No time to dawdle.'

The Boy took a bite and paused, startled by the mix of flavours. He recognised the garlic, onions and a hint of coriander, but the others were foreign to him. 'What's in this? I ain't tasted its like afore.'

Slipper's eyes twinkled in amusement, 'Don't know rightly. Coriander, ginger, lemon, cayenne … this and that. If you think that's good though, you have no idea. Come on, there's usually a stall with sweetmeats near here. I'd bet you've never had the like.'

She grabbed his hand and he followed her through the crowd of bustling shoppers. There were food-stalls selling fruits he had never even heard of, more cheeses he could have imagined and pastries so delicate and intricate that it seemed a shame when Slipper insisted that they had to eat them. The market was a wild medley of colour, sounds and goods, some distance away from the food, to keep them free of the smells of cooking, there hung silks, furs, cloaks, cloaks and clothes of all descriptions; he could hear the distant clash of hammers on metal from the blacksmiths, and there was at least one stall they passed where amber and amethysts intermingled with more precious gems which sparkled in amulets, torcs and armbands.

'This place is amazing. I didn't think anywhere had so many things,' he murmured, as he paused to look at a small carving. 'What is this?'

'You say that a lot you know,' Slipper said, 'If you're not careful you'll get a reputation as a half-wit.'

'You don't think I'm a half-wit, do you?' The Boy asked.

'Course not, anyone could tell that'd be overestimating your wits,' she said, but she winked at him as she said it. 'Don't worry, lad, you just haven't been around much yet. In any case, this is a phoenix. They're mythical birds of fire, chooses to die and be reborn. Immortal.'

'Then why ain't they everywhere?' The Boy asked.

'Guess even a phoenix can choose to die for real if'n it wants to,' Slipper said with a shrug. 'Haven't really thought about it.'

A troop of men and women dressed in black leather, with short swords at their hips and wide-brimmed hats strode down the centre of the alley between the stalls. A woman of medium height, with long brown braids of hair, and bright green eyes, clad in a long scarlet robe was leading them. Though they were talking amongst themselves the shoppers and stall holders fell silent around them, suddenly intent on their goods or their hands. Slipper pushed the Boy to one side until the group had passed by.

The Boy shivered and shook himself as people began to resume their chatter. 'Those are the Brotherhood, ain't they? I didn't think they came together so.'

'They don't,' Slipper said. 'If you look though, they're all around here.' She pointed to a window where two men in black stood talking, just visible at the edge of the shadowed room. 'I don't like it. Last wasn't lying, I guess. Something's up and they're here to deal with it.'

'I can't remember a tale with more'n two 'em in it,' the Boy whispered. Now that she had pointed them out he began to notice that there were men and women in black scattered throughout the market. Most of them were almost unnoticeable, just slipping by without leaving a trace on one's memory, but all of them were armed.

'No. Nor I, perhaps we ought to head back soon,' Slipper said, subdued.

'Doesn't sound a bad idea,' he said. 'Do you think Harry will be here? I'd kind of feel better if we had a sorcerer with us.'

'Lad, he went with a dragon, you don't come back from that,' Slipper said. 'Hendra was near heartbroken. I think she had a soft spot for him. Oh, sorry,' she said as she bumped into a man with dark hair and striking haunted grey eyes. She dragged the Boy along behind her. There was a stillness to the air, the Boy realised. There was no sound of dogs barking or calling birds. Slipper's hand felt hot and slick in his. The aftertaste of the rich pastries was heavy and sickly in his mouth. He shook himself, trying to bring himself back to normal.

The first flakes of snow tumbled through the air. The Boy looked up at them, his vision blurred for a moment, as if he were watching through syrup and the cold bit into him. Around him he heard men and women cry out in sudden shock as the temperature dropped. The wind howled through the down, swirling the falling snow in twisting flurries. The puddles crackled as ice spread over them in an instant.

The Boy gasped, clutching at his throat, almost falling to his knees. The air in his throat scratched like icy daggers. 'Slipper …'

She had recovered herself as the sudden cold retreated a little and wrapped her scarf tightly around her throat. She offered him a hand. Her fingers shook with the cold. 'Come on, up you get. Summat's up, I want to get to the walls. Can you make it?'

He nodded, turning up the collar of his coat and tucking his hands under his armpits. She led the way, picking a path between stumbling shoppers. There was chaos in the streets. Folk milled about, eyes wide with fear, mumbling nonsense. From outside the walls there came howls, wails and screams.

The black clad warriors were barring the gate as they reached it, slamming rowan wood bars across it with cold efficiency. No-one was paying much attention as they slipped up the stairwell to the walls. The snow was whipping against the sandstone walls. Down the road men, women and children were feeling from something. The dark trees of the wood, beyond the wicker fence and the rown grove trembled, branches thrashing in the wind. From further back in the blizzard they caught the sound of screams.

'Open the gate!' Slipper yelled down. 'There are children out there!'

Dark shapes came after the fugitives, some running, and some loping. There was a flash of a blade and a woman at the back of the party fell. The pursuers were on her in a moment. They swarmed over her and the Boy felt bile rise in his throat as he realised that they were tearing at her with their teeth. One raised its face and he saw the blood trickling down over is jaw and teeth as it gave a long, ululating wail.

'Dear gods, what are those things?' He breathed.

'They are the fae,' Slipper said in a small, hollow voice. 'We are all dead meat.'

Below them desperate men and women hammered on the gate begging to be allowed entry. Shapes prowled beyond the fence. A man swore beside the Boy, 'Damnit, get some archers up here! Call out the guard.'

'Can't we open the gate?' The Boy asked, trying to catch the man's sleeve.

The man ignored him, drawing back his own bow. For a moment the Boy thought he was going to loose the arrow at the shadowy shapes beyond the rowans. 'Sorry Boy, this is the kindest thing we can do for the poor sods,' the man said, loosing the arrow into the pleading crowd.

The Boy turned away in horror, looking out across to the figures gathering like wraiths beyond the fences as archers filed onto the walls. Some wore the black leather of the order, but most were townsfolk, or guards from the merchant caravans. A tall woman with green eyes, clothed only in a light summer robe and carrying long thin blade, joined them on the walls. She directed the defenders to their positions. Despite the snow and the wind, the rowan trees caught fire, and the fence with them. The wood blazed with pale flames.

Black feathered arrows rained down on the fae host as it advanced towards the town walls. It was a wild mob as much as an army, but it was seemingly unending. Mountain men, dressed in thick furs, with glazed eyes and wicker shields surged forwards bearing ladders and grappling hooks upon their backs. The slaugh wheeled above them in vast dark flock. Pale lords strode through the ranks, batting aside missiles with long blades or chanted spells. The blizzard swept around the walls cutting visibility to barely more than twenty feet, hurling the shafts off course.

The slaugh threw themselves at the defenders with reckless abandon, ripping with shadowy claws. When they landed they shifted from formless, fluttering shadows to thickly muscled creatures covered in matted pelts. Bony snouts snapped and tore at the men and women who guarded the ramparts. The first had shrieked as they landed, bodies melting into black sludge, but they kept coming and as the fallen soaked into the rosy sandstone fewer and fewer twisted like candles as they landed.

The mountain folk slammed their ladders onto the ground, securing them on the walls with hurled hooks, before beginning to climb. The snow below the walls was thick with bloody slush and broken bodies, but they charged on mindless of their wounds, urged onwards by the chanting fae.

Voldemort watched from the woods, twirling his wand in his hand as he observed the battle. Hyrne paced beside him, his glamours shimmering and twisting around him. There was too much of the wild thing beneath the sophisticated shell and dapper morning suit for Voldemort's liking. Even the edges of the grey top hat reminded him too strikingly of curving antlers when he saw them from the corner of his eye.

'You seem impatient. Perhaps the time has come for you to engage personally?' Voldemort murmured.

He sent a wisp of wind to part the veil of snow for him as he tracked the battle on the walls. The black clad warriors of the Brotherhood were holding the line even where others fell back. Their swords shone with flames as they danced backwards and forwards over the broad walls. He watched as one ducked a blade moments before the blow fell, lunged and hurled his assailant onto a second attacker, toppling them from the walls. The Brother spun, sidestepping a blow from behind, without even looking, before dispatching his opponent with a casual swipe. A singing was rising from the walls, Voldemort realised, almost drowned out by the howling wind the defenders had lifted their voices in a battle hymn.

'What was that?' Hyrne asked, whirling on him, fingers clenching and unclenching around his cane. Black talons slid in and out of view on the fairy's hands.

'Your soldiers seem to be struggling to take the walls,' Voldemort said as he pulled a piece of bread from a pocket. He fished out a pot of jam and a small pat of butter from another. 'Would you care for any?' He offered, 'I picked it up along the way. The owners seemed unlikely to need it any longer.'

'Why?'

'Well, they were dead,' Voldemort said spreading the butter onto the bread.

'No, why are they struggling? These are mere humans; we are the daoine sídhe! How could they hold them?'

'Humans fighting for their homes, I have been told that that sort of thing inspires people,' he paused, watching one of the pale lords engage with a black brother. The fairy was quick and whippet thin. Its blond hair flowed out behind it as it struck. Steel clashed against ensorcelled-bronze and blue fire rippled between the blades. The black brother retreated before a flurry of blows. As the fairy gained the upper hand the brother twisted, catching a blow almost before it had begun, pinning the fairy's bronze sword to the rampart and driving a short dagger into its throat. 'That and I'm almost certain some of them have precognitive abilities,' Voldemort added. 'You know, this really is very good. You ought to try some. I have not had raspberry jam in months. The bread is still quite fresh too.'

'They cannot last forever. If needs must I will send the slain against them. I will call the spirits of the earth, wind and water to my aid! This town shall be no more than a memory, a warning to those who oppose us. I say "us", Tom, for I see our fates as inextricably bound,' Hyrne said.

'No doubt they are,' Voldemort said. 'Till death do us part,' he sneered.

'When this slum has fallen we shall build you a castle, nay, a palace, upon its ruins. One that would make emperors weep!' Hyrne's eyes blazed as he looked at Voldemort. 'My dear fellow, we shall rule together, you and I. Too long have I let this infestation grow. But under our watchful gaze may not even vermin come to be of worth?'

'Indeed,' Voldemort said with a thin smile. 'Perhaps you should remind them why they fear you though. Lead the assault, bring them to heel. Hunt them down, as they deserve,' he added as Hyrne seemed to hesitate.

'You are right, Tom, my most faithful friend. Let us go! The walls will soon fall before us,' Hyrne shook his head. 'You make everything so clear.'

'Lead on, I shall be right behind you,' Voldemort promised, stowing the jam and butter away again as he finished the slice of bread. A wolfish smile crossed his face.

Voldemort strolled towards the main gate. In the failing light it was almost black, the bodies strewed around it lent it the appearance of a mouth to hell itself. He flicked his wand idly, deflecting an arrow that might have come too close. A wave and the charred husk of a rowan was ripped from the earth. He gestured, and it slammed against the gate like a bolt of lightning.

Wood groaned but held. He cast a lance of white light out towards the gate. Aged spells awoke in the wood and the lance glanced aside. The snow hissed and steamed as the magic scorched it. Voldemort held up a hand and the wind twisted around his fingers before leaping out, wrenching an arrow from the grip of an archer on the wall with a thought. He looked up for a moment and struck. The arrow spun on itself and buried the iron head between the archer's eyes.

He spared a glance for Hyrne. The fairy was rallying a mob of men and lurching creatures for a charge. Not yet, there would come a time when Hyrne was alone, weakened and vulnerable. He would strike, but not yet.

A javelin crashed into his chest and he staggered backwards, pulled back into the moment. The weapon bounced away from the enchanted robe, he gasped, grimacing. He touched his chest gingerly and winced, the blow was sure to leave a bruise. A jab of his wand and the javelin broke into splinters which flew back towards the defenders in an angry, humming swarm. He struck the gate again. Green fire clashed with white before subsiding.

Voldemort scowled and with a flick of his wrist the broken lump of the rowan rose into the air again. A snap of his fingers and the wood broke in two. One half floated to him, slicing itself into thick disks which wove backwards and forth in front of him in a shifting pattern. The other half latched onto the gates. Voldemort closed his eyes. He breathed out, concentrating, reminding the wood of when it was alive. Magic bubbled through the charred and broken stump. Tendrils of fresh wood, glowing with dull red flames, stretched outwards. They wormed into the wood of the gate. Around him the world faded away.

He could feel the wood, it was part of him. The cracked and burnt bark, the small core of as yet untouched wood. His fingers were the stretching roots. He locked them around the tiny fissures in the wood, the gaps beside the stones and dug in. The wood was old and tough, but it began to creak. Fire licked up his fingers from the smouldering embers of his trunk. He fed it, directing it into the gateway, and heaved.

His eyes snapped open as the gate erupted in an explosion of splinters and flames. Men and women screamed in pain from somewhere. He stood, rooted to the spot, trying to recall himself. The world seemed less real than it had. He looked down gradually, he had feet. He had forgotten that. They could move, couldn't they? Slowly he came back to himself and started forward. The shields of rowan dropped to the ground, forgotten, behind him.

Smoke, ashes and snow billowed through the gateway. They parted as he strode forwards. Here and there warriors lay bleeding, gasping, and pleading for mercy. One of the black brothers was amongst them. Voldemort paused for a second and finished him off before picking up the man's sword. It was heavy, a brutal sensible piece of steel, notches scored its length. He tapped his wand against it and the edges glimmered, notches smoothing away as the blade became as sharp as a honed razor. He tapped it again, a modified featherweight charm, the blade would crash home with as much force, but now it weighed almost nothing in his hand.

He stepped out from under the gate's archway. A blade hacked down at him, glancing off the sleeve of his robe. He hissed in pain at the dull ache the sword left and spun. His own sword sliced upwards, cutting through his attacker's wrist and a whispered spell ended the man's life. There was a footstep behind him. He spun on his heel, wand rising. A young man and woman stood behind him poised in between flight and fight. A spear trembled in the man's hand.

'Go Boy, get back to the market, they'll have put up barricades,' the woman said, drawing a long dirk as she watched Voldemort.

'I can't leave you, Slipper,' the Boy said, gripping the spear.

Howls arose from outside as more of the horde poured towards the gateway. Voldemort rolled his eyes and flicked his wand. The pair were hurled backwards, their weapons wrenched from their hands. They skidded over the street and slammed into the wall of a building. A casual wave of his hand and the building's wall was wrenched outwards, collapsing over them. If they were lucky they might have survived, but they were trapped. Voldemort strode onwards, down into the down, his robe sweeping out behind him as he moved.

A handful of black clad warriors barred his passage as he marched down the main street. He could see families fleeing behind them. They held their swords before them in salute. Voldemort bowed mocking and flung out a curse. A warrior raised his blade and the spell died away with the sound of a ringing gong. The brothers spread out, levelling their blades towards him. He flicked his wand and the ground rippled, but they were ready and barely paused. He hissed and the glass in the surrounding lamps shattered and rained down upon the brothers. One cried out in pain, but the others were spared by their thick coats.

One of them lunged at him and Voldemort parried. Even with the enchanted sword his cut was clumsy, barely blocking the attack. Blows were exchanged with lightning speed. Voldemort leapt back, gaining a breathing space and struck, the flash of a killing curse lit the street. A brother raised his blade to block the spell, but the sword shattered under the impact. Tiny slivers of steel buried into his hands and face and he screamed in pain. The others leapt forwards, blades dancing.

Voldemort raised his hand and the flames leapt from the lamps around them. The brothers were good, but they could not dodge the inferno which descended. The flames fell on them like living creatures and as they struggled Voldemort struck. His blade danced in and out, punching through leathers as their swords turned on them under his command, slitting their throats.

He marched onwards, further into the town, letting their corpses collapse behind him. An old man with one brilliant blue eye stood in the centre of the street. He carried a spear in one hand. His white beard curled over his chest and a shapeless hat sat on his head. 'Step aside old man,' Voldemort said. 'I have other business to attend to. I would prefer you to live.'

He shook his head, 'No.'

'Stay your hand,' a voice said from behind him.

Voldemort half turned, his eyebrows rose. 'Do I know you?'

There was a woman, flanked by two men. She was tall with green eyes and dark chestnut hair tied back. In one hand she carried a long blade covered in runes. Green light flickered along the swords edge and blood dripped from its point.

'We met once. Are you with them?' She asked.

'Nominally,' he shrugged. 'I think though that you'll want to take me to whoever is in charge.'

'That would be me,' the woman said, 'Pilgrim.'

'Oh, you must be Heather,' he said, a smile curving over his features. 'My, my, you have changed. I did tell him not to trust you. How is the boy, dead yet?'

'I couldn't say.' The earth shook. Tiles tumbled from the roofs. 'Come, surrender to us.' Some little way away something roared.

Voldemort tilted his head, considering, and then the slaugh came round the corner.

The air cracked as Harry and Malvine appeared. They coughed and staggered, stumbling to the edge of the street. 'Where are we?' Malvine said after she had managed to regain her feet.

Snow was falling around them and mixed with it were great grey flakes of ash. Harry looked around. Now that the world had stopped spinning he could hear the clash of steel and the screams and cries of the dying. 'I think it is Trewalder, I was thrown off a little. There's magic overflowing here at the moment. I'm frankly amazed I managed to get us here at all. Draw your sword, something is wrong here.'

He set off at a slow run, wand drawn. They came to a space between the houses and the town wall. The wall beside them shook under a tremendous blow and the earth trembled with it. Upon the ramparts swarmed dark, hunchbacked creatures, ripping and tearing at fallen bodies. Harry cursed as the creatures looked up, noticing them. 'Run!'

They turned a corner and came face to face with a group of men coming out of a house, blades and beards dripping with blood. A monstrous beast with the body of a gorilla and a head like a crocodile came with them, trailing like a dog. A babe was gripped in its jaws, it was still twisting, impaled on the ragged teeth.

There was a pause as they stood looking at Harry and Malvine. The beast growled, and the spell was broken. Malvine moved with steady efficiency. To Harry's eyes it seemed that she had lightly pushed the first man who came at her, but he staggered backwards. Blood bubbled between his teeth and he collapsed. She struck the beast a blow and its head snapped backwards, neck snapping with a crack. The other men looked at her and screamed in fright as she opened her mouth and roared. The noise was terrible. Even standing behind her Harry raised his hands to his ears as he was forced to his knees. Tears welled in his eyes. When the roar finished the men had fled. Head ringing Harry staggered up to his feet.

'Let's go,' Malvine said.

They ran through the streets. Dark shapes swooped down at them, but Harry threw nets of golden light into the air, catching between the buildings. The slaugh stuck caught on them withered before bursting into flames. As they turned a corner Harry's feet slowed, a soft humming filled the street. Halfway down the street a group of soldiers were kneeling before a thing like pale woman. 'Leanan sidhe,' Malvine hissed, pulling Harry away.

The thing's face flicked upwards and for a moment Harry felt drawn to her dark eyes before Malvine whisked him around the corner and into a melee. Walking slaugh filled the junction. A woman with a blazing green blade was slicing through them, a lithe man wearing a queer old-fashioned coat fought on the other a blade flashed in his hand like quicksilver.

'One-Eye!' Harry shouted in greeting as he slashed his wand at one of the slaugh. Its forepaws disintegrated, melting into ash before the curse spread, dissolving the creature.

'Wizard,' One-Eye grunted, ramming his spear down a monster's gullet before ripping it free.

The fight was a blur. Before long the street ran with thick blood and the stinking carcasses of the slaugh lay everywhere. 'Thank you for your help,' Heather said.

Harry was about to nod when familiar voice said, 'I wouldn't thank me too soon. I haven't decided whether I mean to kill you too yet.' Voldemort turned around and blinked as he noticed Harry.

'Tom.'

'Harry,' Voldemort paused for a moment. 'Would you mind helping me kill a god?'