Jonathan Stroud - The Creeping Shadow

There were other movements in the mist, people coming out of their houses, latches lifting, gates being softly unlocked.

“Lucy,” Lockwood said, “we really need to go.”

“But look, that little girl—”

“Danny Skinner told us about her, Luce. Remember? Hetty Flinders, with her nice blue frock.”

Hetty Flinders? Yes….

She’d died.

With steady, unhurried steps, the girl in the blue dress and the other inhabitants of the dark village made their way toward us. You could see the details of their clothes—some modern, others less so. Their faces were as gray as the frosted ground.

For a few dreadful seconds it was as if some power pinned us where we stood; our blood was water, our limbs cold stones. But we had the warmth of the spirit-capes around us; and, deep inside, our willpower still burned strong. As one, we shrugged the death-clasp off. As one, we began to run.

We pressed close together, hoods low over our faces against the cold. We cut across the green, boots thrumming on the hollow, frozen earth. Smoke poured from our icy capes, extending behind us like a comet’s tail.

The green was not a big space, but it seemed to expand as we went across it. It took a long time to get near the church. We passed beneath the tower at last. Looking up, I saw the shape of a person standing there; I felt him lock his gaze with mine.

We ran down the lane past the churchyard. From the other side of the hedged embankment came noises—the grinding of stone, the whisper of rustling cloth. Shapes appeared at the hedge. They began pushing their way through, framed against the sky.

Out of the village, up the cold road. It was hard to move fast; whether it was the chill, or something else, my limbs felt like lead. It was like walking through mud, like going the wrong way up an escalator. Lockwood, usually so fleet of foot, was having the same problem. Our breaths came in gasps. Over our shoulders, we could see the people of the graveyard and the people of the village congregating in the road, pooling toward us, following our trail.

We fled over the footbridge, over the dried-up stream, into the woods. We took the shortest way. At the turning to the quarry, a man stood waiting for us at the cairn. His face was the one we’d seen in the photograph atop the neat pile of stones; his features too were blurred as if by rain. He walked into the center of the lane and reached out for us. Lockwood and I veered away, off the road, up into the forest. The ground was thick with dead black brambles that burst into dust as we ran through them. The branches of the trees were sharp and snaring, snagging at our faces, catching on our clothes. We ran through light and dark, dodging, jumping, fighting against the cold, thick air.

I could see other people in the trees now, moving slowly, yet somehow effortlessly keeping pace. They were homing in on us from either side. Lockwood, just ahead of me, took a flare from his belt. He threw it at the nearest figure; it struck a tree root, bounced, broke open. The breaking made no noise; and nothing came out—no burst of light, no dazzling white fire. I’d instinctively squeezed my eyes tight shut; now I opened them, one after the other, to see our pursuers clambering over the roots, working their way implacably through brambles, still silent, patient, utterly unmoved.

We struggled up an icy slope, skidding, gasping; and all at once plunged down a steep hollow into a thicket. Black thorns stabbed my spirit-cape, intertwining with the silver, snaring it in several places. I was pulled back, trapped and twisting. As I struggled, the spirit-cape ripped. It tore in two. I screamed. A piercing cold like death stabbed me like a knife driven between the shoulders. I couldn’t breathe. I fell to the ground. Feathers scattered on the frost beside me like smoking drops of blood.

I couldn’t breathe….

Then Lockwood was beside me, pulling me to him, dragging me beside him under his cape. Its softness enfolded me. The desperate cold lingered for a moment. It drew back painfully, like clawed fingers being withdrawn. I took a wrenching breath. I could feel Lockwood’s warmth against me, and mine against him. We crouched together, side by side, his arm around me, my right knee pressed tight against his left. Our faces were very close, mine lower, his higher, leaning together as we peered out from under the burning hood at the swirling grayness all around.

Our descent into the thicket had been abrupt. Our pursuers were somewhere above us. Nothing was near.

“Are you all right, Lucy?”

I nodded, blinked ice out of my eyes. In that second in which my cape had fallen away, a coating of frost had adhered to my face.

“Am I pressing too close?”

“No.”

“Say if I am.”

“I will.”

“We’ve got to go on, into the mist. But we have to stick together like glue. The cape’s not very big. You’ll have to stay really close to me, Luce. Can you do that?”

“I’ll try.”

“Quick, then. They’re coming.”

Up on our feet, out of the hollow and up a final rise. Dark shapes converged on us, bursting out from beneath the trees. We were almost at the brow of the hill. Gunner’s Top was what it had been called; or something very like that. The name didn’t seem appropriate here. Nothing under that flat black sky had a name.

The mists below now lay thicker on the fields than when we’d left them. The buildings of the institute were barely visible; their roofs rose above the murk, as dark and dead as standing stones.

We skittered and skidded down the slope, arms around each other, plowing up clouds of ice crystals at every step. Every movement was jerky, hard to take. We started out across the field. “No good,” I gasped. “I’ve got to rest.”

“Me, too.” We stopped, turned stiffly together beneath our hood—just in time to see a tide of figures surging over the hillcrest, pouring down the slope behind us.

“Okay,” Lockwood said. “Maybe a rest’s not such a good idea.”

Onward, in silence, through the mists; and now those mists parted, and we saw a tall bearded man, picking himself up off the ground, turning his head as we passed by. He carried a great sword. Both blade and skin were glimmering with frost.

Stumbling, almost falling, we ran on. The mists closed up again. Behind us we heard footsteps shuffling on hard ground.

“A Viking’s all we need,” I gasped.

“Like moths to a candle,” Lockwood said. “Our warmth, our life—it draws them all. They followed the Shadow just the same. Last push, Lucy! We’re almost there—”

We could see the fence of the institute, open, blank, and empty. Beyond, the doors of the central building hung wide and black.

“I’m never going to make it,” I said.

“Keep going. We’re there. We’ve done so well.”

Through the fence, across the frosted gravel. We reached the double doors. The interior of the hangar was filled with mist. There was ice on the ground here, too. We paused, panting. We were almost worn out. Beneath the smoking spirit-cape, our gloves sparkled with ice. Our breath echoed like it was reverberating off our bones.

“How are we doing?” Lockwood said.

I looked back. “They’re still coming. They’re at the fence now.”

“Better get on with it, then.”

We stumbled through the open doors.

It was the same place—no doubt about that. The soaring roof, the metal walls. Far off through the mists, I saw the stacked crates. But the light was still odd, so that everything was layered, gray and grainy, as if with scales. That mist played tricks with my eyes. Nothing seemed quite straight, neither floor nor ceiling, hatch nor door. It looked as if everything was made of wax, and had been heated so that it swelled and softened, and was just about to melt. But everything was brittle with cold; thin cracks ran across the floor at my feet, and our boots rang out like iron.