The Nethergrim (22 page)

“I don’t think you would.” Edmund smiled. “Katherine the Outlaw.”

“Katherine the strung-up-by-her-toes, I’d bet.” She gazed up. “We have to choose right, or we might never find Papa and the kids in time.”

Edmund squinted at the carvings on the ceiling, trying to tease out the meaning of the symbols wound all around the lintel blocks, but there were far too many—more than he had ever seen, even in the book. He could hardly read one out of ten.

“Those four, one to each direction, they’re much bigger than the rest.” Katherine pointed with her sword. “If this is a crossroads, maybe they say where to go.”

Edmund looked. “They might.”

“So—north. What’s that one?”

“I can only say what I think it means,” said Edmund. “I don’t know how it’s supposed to sound.”

“How it sounds doesn’t matter. What it means might.”

“That one says Brown-Harm-of-Bees.”

Katherine looked at him. “Brown-Harm-of-Bees?”

“A bear.” Tom’s voice floated from outside.

“Right—right!” Edmund clapped his hands together. “Tom, that was clever!”

“Thank you.” Tom tossed a stick for Jumble to fetch.

“So that’s how they do things.” Katherine crossed her arms. “They make symbols that don’t quite say what things are.”

“Maybe that way was wilderness,” said Edmund.

Katherine looked north. “It certainly is now. What’s the symbol for east, the way we came?”

Edmund turned. “Village-Slaves-Wheat.”

“So where we live was the best farmland. West?”

“I’m not sure I’ve got it right—Center-Exalted-Thousand-Men.”

“That sounds promising.” Katherine sat up to look. “And it does go over the pass. What about south?”

Edmund looked. “That-of-Goodness.”

“That-of-Goodness?” Katherine looked at it. “Well, that can’t be it. I’d say west, then. Looks like we have some more climbing to do.”

“Wait.” Edmund stared at the southern symbol. He looked back at the picture of the procession coming before the big man. “I remember from the book, the wizard wrote about two centers, two places. One was their great city, the other was some special place, reserved to the highest men, the Gatherers.”

“But wouldn’t the Nethergrim be at the center, if they built a kingdom around it?”

Edmund pointed. “Look at the picture—see the big man? That is He-That-Speaks-From-The-Mountain. Now, see how he’s looking up? The Nethergrim’s the pair of hands.” He felt a surge of certainty. “The great king of the kingdom took his tribute from the little men in the procession, but he got his power from something else.”

Katherine stood up. “Why wouldn’t they show the Nethergrim, if it was the source of all their power?”

“I don’t think most of these folk even knew what the Nethergrim looked like. There were orders of men who ruled above the rest, who learned the hidden truth. He-That-Speaks-From-The-Mountain is a king, but he is also a servant, a sort of emissary of the Nethergrim. The Nethergrim’s secret is part of his power, known only to the mighty few.”

“Hunters, farmers, warriors, mothers and craftsmen.” Katherine turned with the procession above her. “All bringing gifts to the big man—who’s probably not really a giant, he’s just drawn like that because he’s important. I’ll bet in real life he was short.”

“If you’re the big man, then you owe the Nethergrim your place in life.” Edmund stepped south into the open and took Rosie’s reins. “If you’re one of the little men, then the Nethergrim is a hidden force, the unseen power behind the throne. It could be anywhere, anything. It could be listening when you curse it under your breath. You don’t dare to speak the truth.”

Katherine hesitated, looking out the western arch. “Edmund, are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” Edmund put one foot in the stirrup. Rosie gave him no trouble at all.

Chapter
23

T
he road was a ghost, a trick of the eyes. There was not so much as a wagon rut to mark its course, no breadth of flattened earth. It seemed no more than a lucky run of turns over broad and rippled ground—but at each bend, each place where it became a question of which line of land to follow next, there stood another stone that looked just like the Wishing Stone back home, worn smooth by endless wind and unnumbered rains. Katherine rode watchful, her back up and tight, one hand on the reins and the other bearing her shield at the ready.

Edmund looked back. They had come down crossways to the falling sun, from the heights of the pass into a long vale that dipped low enough to allow a run of trees along its bottom. The wind blew sharp and westerly, tossing crumpled clouds across the sky and hissing down between the summits to rip along his cheek.

“Look.” Tom leaned from his saddle to point. Through a gap in the trees far below, Edmund caught sight of water, a band of twinkled silver winding through the green.

Edmund lost sight of it in the trees again. “It’s a bit small for a river, isn’t it?”

“It will turn into a river if we keep following it,” said Tom.

“But is it the right river?” Katherine could not answer her own question. Neither could the others.

They passed another arch—Edmund beneath, his friends around. Men came in a cringing procession before an empty throne. A pair of hands hung above it, carved as though they floated in the air—long, thin hands holding star and dagger. The big man stood on the other side of the throne, dressed in might. He held a symbol—a letter, a crooked loop with spines. Edmund squinted at it—Death-Craft-Provide-Thousand-Seasons. The meaning teased at him, almost resolved into a thought.

“Are those bolgugs?” Katherine steered Indigo in beside the arch. “Right there, in front of the throne.”

“They are—and other things. I think that’s a stonewight.” Edmund examined the scene awhile longer. “And they’re in front of the throne, faced away, toward the little men. They don’t bear gifts, either.”

“They’re guards,” said Katherine. “His army.”

“Men serve the Nethergrim, and so the Nethergrim’s creatures serve the men.” Edmund reined Rosie back—she seemed to hate the arches as much as Tom did. “That gives them the power to rule over other men, many others, and to destroy anyone who opposes them. Look at all those dead men off to the side.”

“And those ones, over there—they’re having their hands cut off, and those ones—ugh!” Katherine turned away.

“I can read some of this.” Edmund followed the symbols carved farthest in and away from the wind. He read along, skipping over the parts he could not make out: “‘Their men I took captive . . . of some I cut off their feet and hands, others their noses and lips, still others I blinded. I made a trophy of their chieftains’ heads, in tribute to That-of-Goodness . . . their women I took to make my wives . . . their city I leveled to the ground, their fields I sowed with salt, in service to That-of-Goodness . . .’”

Edmund stopped reading. A shiver worked its way up his back. “They carved this into stone.” He shared a look of horror with Katherine. “They were proud of it.”

“We should find shelter soon.” Tom had let Berry pace on ahead. “It’s going to get very cold tonight.”

“It doesn’t feel that bad.” Edmund lingered at the edge of the shelter. “These pictures might help us figure out if we’re going the right way.”

Katherine nudged Indigo back into the open. “I’m listening to Tom. He’s the one who sleeps outside half the year.”

A valley folded out beyond the arch. Spurs of mountain crossed to end it, but the road did not climb them. It led down and down to the floor of the land, down from bare mountain into folds thick with trees, down over roots twined in roots and farther down through a gully and into a gawping mouth. The river—for it had gathered enough rivulets and streams to earn itself the name—flowed in at a foaming rush. The road ran beside it, a hard stone path bounded on one side by water and the other by a wall.

“Look at this place! It must have been shaped, somehow.” Edmund peered inside the tunnel, and then around him. More symbols marked the stones that braced the entrance—Suitable-Gatherers-Goodly, and Household-Exalted. He twitched in his knees—Rosie would not go in until Indigo led.

The light of evening spilled in across the carvings on the tunnel wall beside him, another line of men bearing gifts. The men wore feathers, wolves’ heads, death masks. They raised their arms in groveling salute.

“There’s a bit of color left on these.” Edmund reached out to touch, then drew back from the coating of muck and slime.

“Edmund, watch about you!” The river drowned the echoes of Katherine’s voice. “Keep on your guard.”

Rosie crunched something underfoot. She let out a snort and leapt aside, nearly throwing Edmund from the saddle. “Steady, girl!” He put his arms around her neck. “Steady!” He peered down.

Bones. Many bones.

Katherine struck a light and set tinder to torch. She held it up in her sword hand, then sucked in a gasp. Indigo crushed a skull beneath his hoof. The faces in the walls loomed and leered.

“Please, girl.” Edmund felt the panicked arch in Rosie’s back. “Steady.” He swung out a leg and dropped to the ground. Bones clacked and scattered across the floor.

“Is this place a grave?” He knelt to pick one up—it flaked and crumbled in his hand. “Remember what the book said—the graves of the children, the victims laid all in rows.”

Katherine dismounted and felt around at her feet. “None of these are children, and they’re not laid in graves.” She held up a leg bone. “The bones of grown men—and other things, all jumbled up.”

“The tunnel ends ahead.” Tom reached the edge of their torchlight. “There’s wind.”

“There was a battle here. Long ago.” Katherine picked up something round—a helm with a spike on top. A piece of it broke off and clattered to the floor. “This is bronze.”

Edmund reached into his pack for a torch. He lit it from Katherine’s and looked about him. The light found other shapes amongst the bones—a spearhead, a buckle, a shield shaped like no shield he had ever seen before. Green tarnish clung like moss to all of it, and almost nothing could survive being picked up or touched. Even the shield, a massive curved rectangle that was almost Edmund’s height, crumbled in half when he tried to move it. The skull beneath it rolled away, its jaw came off—two rows of needle teeth.

“This is ancient, all of it.” Edmund sat back on his haunches. “This kingdom came to an end—maybe it was overthrown.”

“And good riddance.” Katherine stepped back along the tunnel. “Look how this lies—where we stand it’s all a muddle, but on our way in it’s mostly the bones of men. Then farther on it’s more bolgugs. They must have been the first line of defense. Then—I don’t know what sort of thing has bones like that, and I never want to know. Most of them fell faced the way we’re going, as though they were in retreat. That means the men won, the monsters lost, and then—Edmund! Look at this.”

Edmund followed with his torch. The bones grew in number, piled over themselves in heaps, until he reached a place where they lay shored up against a pair of enormous, fallen plates of bronze.

“Doors.” Edmund brought his torch up close. They had been thrown from their hinges to lie atop a mass of crushed bones and armor.

“It’s all right, Jumble.” Tom slid from his saddle in the darkness behind them. “I’m here, don’t be scared.” The horses whinnied, first Rosie and then Berry.

“This was a gatehouse.” Katherine looked around her. “If you were trying to go south, this would be the only way. Whatever’s on the other side would be very well guarded, at least from the north.”

“We’re following a river,” said Edmund. “The book said that the Nethergrim can be found in a valley where two rivers meet.”

“I think you steered us right.” Even in the belly of the tunnel Katherine’s smile made Edmund sing inside. She moved off across the bone-strewn tunnel and handed her torch to Tom. “Let’s keep going. I don’t think I could rest in this place.”

“Just a moment.” Edmund turned back to the wall and held his torch close enough to see the carvings. The shelter of the tunnel had preserved even more color there than near the entrance, giving them clear and sickening detail. They looked to be scenes of praise for He-That-Speaks-From-The-Mountain. In one picture he held an axe in one hand and the head of a man in the other. His army had been carved small about him—the hands of the Nethergrim floated above, opened wide as though to bless the event.

Edmund stepped along the wall, fascinated and repulsed all at once. He-That-Speaks-From-The-Mountain took tribute, dispensed hard justice, commanded and was obeyed. He led armies, both man and monster, and stood above them all, lightning-handed, seeming to slay whole nations from afar. He held out an arm at granaries full to bursting. He made signs and rain fell, others and the sun shone. The people rejoiced and fell in worship at his feet. The hands of the Nethergrim framed every scene, sheltering allies and pointing at enemies.

“Who were you?” Edmund held the torch up close—the slant of its light caught and changed the carven faces, making them seem to leer down at Edmund from the corners of their eyes. For a moment he recoiled, unable to shake the fear that He-That-Speaks-From-The-Mountain was about to peel himself from the wall and come for him.

The next scene along took his breath.

“The star, with the children on it.” Edmund was not sure his friends had heard him over the noise of the river, so he said it louder. “The star, it’s here!” He turned, and found that he had come far along the tunnel—the flame of Katherine’s torch looked like a candle, and all between was dark.

“We should leave.” Tom’s voice barely rose above the rush. “This place—I don’t like it.”

“I’ll bet you anything the places beyond it are worse.” Katherine took the reins of the horses. “Edmund, let’s go!”

“Come see this!” Edmund raised his torch. The carving of He-That-Speaks-From-The-Mountain shifted in its aspect, seeming once again to gaze up at the Nethergrim in feral and expectant joy.

“I feel like someone’s watching us.” Tom came first, leading Berry and holding Katherine’s torch. Jumble followed, winding in between Tom’s feet with his tail dropped low.

“It’s just the carvings.” Edmund tried to make his voice sound braver than he felt. “A trick of the light, you know.”

“What did you find?” Katherine brought Rosie and Indigo, one lead in each hand and her shield slung on her shoulder.

“This.” Edmund turned back to the wall. “Look.”

“That’s the picture from your book! The children on the star.”

“The same picture exactly—it’s as though someone drew it while looking at this.” Edmund’s torch spat and guttered low. Rosie whinnied and pawed at the floor, knocking a bone sliding along it. Jumble started growling, but it broke into a whine.

Tom turned back and forth behind his friends. “Someone is watching us. I’m sure of it.”

“Hold that steady!” Edmund peered up closer to the wall. “See that symbol, there in his hands?”

Katherine followed him. “I thought that was a weapon.”

“It’s a word.” Edmund traced it with his finger. “
Death-Craft-Provide-Thousand-Seasons.
And look, it’s there on the star. See how he’s looking up to the Nethergrim with his arms raised? It gives him the power to do something to the children.” The answer teased at him and danced away.

“It certainly doesn’t look like he’s about to eat them for dinner.” Katherine took the torch from Tom’s hand. “What are those, over there?”

Edmund looked. “Numbers, next to symbols I can’t read—place-names, I think.”

“Which numbers?” Katherine moved her torch from right to left.

Edmund had no choice but to follow—his own torch had fallen to the strength of a rushlight. He looked closer. “The top one says 515.”

“And this one?”

“498.” Edmund blinked. “Oh.”

He read on down with the flame. “Then 476, 453, 428—the numbers from the book. These must be village names beside them! It’s all part of the same scene—I think these are the years when the spell was done. Yes! See? There’s space for more entries.”

Jumble started barking—the terrified noise of it came back again and again across the channel of the river. The horses were no better—even Indigo snorted and stamped.

“They’re afraid.” Tom looked left and right. “They think something’s coming. So do I.”

“We should go,” said Katherine.

“Wait—wait, I’ve almost got it!” Edmund traced his fingers on the wall: “He-That-Speaks-From-The-Mountain serves the Nethergrim and builds a kingdom with its help. Every twenty years he takes seven children before it and casts a spell that kills them, a spell marked
Death-Craft-Provide-Thousand-Seasons
—”

Understanding came like cold water down his neck.

“Life.” He turned to Katherine. “Endless life.”

“Oh. Of course.” Katherine gazed up in horror at the carvings. “Twenty years—long enough for a young man to start growing old and want to be young again.”

“The greatest gift of all,” said Edmund. “What better reward for the Nethergrim’s most faithful servant?”