For an instant everything disappeared in smoke and silt. Frantic, Rone scrambled back to his feet.
“Taste a bit of my magic, you worm food!” Cogline was howling in glee. “See what you can do against that!”
He darted past Rone before the highlander could stop him, dancing about in maddened delight, his sticklike form disappearing into the smoke. Whisper’s sudden snarl lifted from somewhere ahead, then Kimber’s sharp cry. Rone swore in fury and leaped forward. Crazy old man!
Directly before him, red fire erupted from the haze. Cogline’s thin form flew sideways as if it were a doll flung by an angry child. The highlander set his teeth and hurtled toward the source of the fire. Almost at once, he came up against the Wraith, its black-cloaked form tattered and bent. The Sword of Leah pierced into a burst of red fire, shattering it apart. The Wraith disappeared. Something moved behind him, and the highlander swung about. But it was Whisper who lunged past through a trailer of smoke, the first of the black things clinging to him, the second borne before him in his teeth. Swiftly, Rone struck, the sword cleaving through the creature that hung upon the moor cat’s back and stripping it from him.
“Kimber!” he screamed.
Red fire exploded close to him, but he caught it again on the sword. A cloaked form appeared momentarily through the smoke, and he lunged at it. This time the Wraith was not quick enough. Backed against the stone stairway of the Croagh, it tried to slip left, with fire bursting from its fingers. Rone was on it at once. The Sword of Leah came down, and the Wraith exploded into a pile of ash.
Everything went still then, save for the low coughing sound Whisper made as he padded ghostlike through the haze toward Rone. Slowly the smoke drifted away and the whole of the ledge and the Croagh became visible once more. The ledge was littered with broken rock, and an entire section of the Croagh where it joined to the ledge—where the Mord Wraith had been standing when Cogline had challenged it—was gone.
Rone glanced quickly about. The Wraith and the black things were gone as well. He wasn’t sure what had happened to them—whether they had been destroyed or merely driven off—but they were nowhere to be seen.
“Rone. ”
He whirled at the sound of Kimber’s voice. She appeared from the far side of the ledge, looking small and bedraggled, limping slightly as she came. Anger and relief flooded through him. “Kimber, why in the name of all that’s right and sensible did you… ?”
“Because Whisper would have done the same for me. Where is grandfather?”
Rone clamped his mouth shut on the rest of what he would have said to her. Together, they scanned the littered rock shelf. They saw him finally, half buried in a pile of rubble by the cliff side, as blackened as the ash left by the fires of their battle with the Wraith. They hurried to him and lifted him clear. His face and arms were burned, his hair singed, and he was covered with soot. Gently, Kimber cradled the old man’s head. His eyes were closed and he did not appear to be breathing.
“Grandfather?” the girl whispered, her hand on his cheek.
“Who’s that?” the old man cried abruptly, startling both the girl and the highlander. Arms and legs began to thrash. “Get out of my house, trespassers! Get out of my home!”
Then his eyes blinked and opened. “Girl?” he muttered weakly. “What happened to the black things?”
“Gone, grandfather.” She smiled, relief in her dark eyes. “Are you all right?”
“All right?” He looked dazed, but nodded resolutely, his voice becoming stiff with indignation. “Of course I’m all right! Just got a bit ahead of myself, that’s all! Help me up!”
Rone took a deep breach. Lucky to be alive is what you are, old man, you and the girl, he thought grimly.
With Kimber’s aid he pulled Cogline back to his feet and let him test his weight alone. The old man looked like something dredged up from an ash pit, but he seemed uninjured. The girl hugged him warmly and began to brush him off.
“You must be more careful, grandfather,” she admonished. “You are not as quick as you used to be. The walkers will have you if you try to run past them again the way you did here.”
Rone shook his head in disbelief. Who should be scolding whom—the girl the old man or the old man the girl? What had Brin and he been thinking anyway when they…
He caught himself. Brin. He had forgotten about Brin. He glanced toward the Croagh. If the Valegirl had gotten this far, she had almost certainly gone down into the Maelmord. And that was where he must go as well.
He turned from Kimber and her grandfather and hurried across the rock shelf to where it joined with the steps of the Croagh. He was still gripping the Sword of Leah firmly. How much time had he lost here? He had to catch Brin before she got too far ahead into whatever it was that waited in the valley below…
Abruptly, he slowed and stopped. Whisper stood directly in his path, blocking the stairway down. The moor cat stared at him momentarily, then sat back on his haunches and blinked.
“Get out of the way!” Rone snapped.
The cat did not move. The highlander hesitated, then started forward impatiently. Whisper’s muzzle drew back slightly, and a low growl rumbled in his throat.
Rone stopped at once and looked back angrily at Kimber. “Get your cat out of my way, Kimber. I’m going down.”
The girl called softly to the moor cat, but Whisper stayed where he was. Puzzled, she came forward and bent close to him, talking in a low, calm voice, rubbing the massive head about the ears and neck. The cat nuzzled her back and made a soft purring sound, but did not move. Finally, the girl stepped back.
“Brin is well,” she informed him with a brief smile. “She has gone down into the pit.”
Rone nodded with relief. “Then I’ve got to go after her.”
But the girl shook her head. “You must remain here, highlander.”
Rone stared. “Remain here? I can’t do that! Brin is all alone down there! I’m going after her!”
But again the girl shook her head. “You cannot. She doesn’t want you doing that. She has used the wishsong to prevent it. She has made Whisper her sentry. No one may pass—not even me.”
“But he’s your cat! Make him move! Tell him that he has to move! The magic isn’t that strong, is it?”
Her pixie face looked up at him calmly. “It is more than the magic, Rone. Whisper’s instincts tell him that Brin is right about this. The magic does not hold him; his reason does. He knows that whatever danger waits in the valley is too great. He will not let you pass.”
The highlander continued to stare at the girl, anger and disbelief flooding his face. His gaze shifted to the giant cat and back again.
What was he supposed to do now?
Euphoria engulfed Brin, sweeping over her in a warm rush, flooding through her as if it were her life’s blood. She felt it carry her down within herself like a tiny leaf borne on the waters of some great river. Sight, sound, and smell meshed and ran in a dazzling mix of wild imaginings, some of beauty and light, some of darkest misshape, all in the ebb and flow of her mind’s eye. Nothing was as it had been, but new and exotic and alive with wonder. It was a journey of self-discovery that transcended thought and feeling and was its own reason for being.
She sang, the music of the wishsong the food and drink that fed her, sustained her, and gave her life.
She was deep within the Maelmord now, far from the stairway of the Croagh and the world she had left behind. It was another world entirely here. As she worked to make herself one with it, it reached out to her and drew her in. Stench, heat, and the rot of living things wrapped about her and found in her their child. Gnarled limbs, vines twisted and mottled, and great stalks of brush and weed stroked her body as she slipped past, feeding on the vibrancy of the music, finding in it an elixir that gave back life. From a great distance away, Brin felt their caress and smiled in response.