Chapter 206

The wall of light across the fjord-head. Outside it, the white, rising: the Tideline swelling like a slow sea before a storm, swallowing the black water, climbing the cliff-foot. In it, the Unwritten wading in, more than ever, grey on grey to the horizon.

on the inside of the wall now, water pouring off him into the barrel, staring out at it.

getting slowly to his feet for the first time in a day, scars all over him, setting his shield against the foot of the wall again and planting his boots.

stepping up beside him without a word, blades out. Then Kompis on the other side. Then Smurjan. Then Öde, grass springing round his boots.

Night. The assault.

The Unwritten hit the wall in a grey tide, hundreds at once, battering, and on Aldhrun's arms, neck and face, scar after scar opening, thin red lines in dozens.

Rougeina, Tear-Swapping out through the wall and back, cutting emerald lights, taking blows off him.

Kompis, the Five-Gun Volley, every gun on its own line, clearing the grey from the wall's face for one heartbeat at a time.

Smurjan, the Triple Pulse, at the cliff-paths where the Unwritten try to climb round.

Isa on the gate-tower, holding whatever part of them is still counted, …ba—, while Trollmage charges against her back.

Trollmage, snapping awake, violet blazing:

MACRO : WALL = THICKER

(Aldhrun's wall swells a full metre deeper. The scars on him slow.)

And under it, the seep, now a flood: the white soaking up through the jetty stones on the inside faster than any bucket can wet them, the grey spreading in a tide of its own, up the gate's threshold, into the gatehouse, where the Bastion's wounded lie on cots.

in the gatehouse door, finger to her lips, eyes wide, the grey creeping over the floor toward the wounded guards, toward her.

spinning round from the wall.

The crew peeling away from the wall, running for the gatehouse through ankle-deep grey, Drämmen's water sloshing ahead of them from buckets. Only Aldhrun left at the wall, alone, shield to the stone. And the grey, reaching his boots.

in the grey. The leather losing its colour. Then its shape, going soft at the edges.

He looks down at it. He knows exactly what it is.

(He doesn't step back.)

The crew carrying the wounded out of the grey: Smurjan with a guard under each arm, Vigolas with two over his shoulders, Öde throwing grass down across the grey floor like a carpet to walk on, Drekk hauling cots, Mingus walking calmly through the grey ahead of them, the grey parting round his paws, showing the way.

carrying a wounded boy no older than fourteen, her lips moving without sound, counting the cots. Nine. Ten. Eleven. All out.

at the wall. The grey has reached his knees. His legs are going soft, colourless. He's standing on legs that are less and less there, and he is standing.

On the far side of the wall, the Unwritten pressing, battering. A scar opens across his cheek. Another across his throat.

the shield-hand, gripping the shield's edge, its knuckles grey. And his right hand, bare, laid flat on the wall's stone. Not casting. Not commanding. Just pushing, the way a man pushes a door shut against a storm.

at the top of the stair, setting down the last guard, turning, seeing him.

turning his head, slowly. Grey to the chest now. His beard losing its colour. His eyes still his.

starting down the stair, and Drämmen's huge wet hand closing on his shoulder, stopping him.

stepping between Vigolas and the stair, a hand on his chest.

a strip of four panels, the same view: the wall, the white against it, the grey climbing the old man. Midnight. Grey to the shoulders. Later. Grey to the chin, his scarred hand still flat on the stone. Later. Only his face and his bare hand still in colour. Before dawn. The Unwritten, battering. The wall, holding.

on the stair, holding nothing, watching him, very still, a beat late.

The first grey light over the Marhold Spine. And the Tideline turns. The white sliding back down the cliffs like a tide going out, back across the fjord, back toward the horizon. The Unwritten retreating with it, wading away into the blank. The grey on the jetty stops, then slowly, patchily, drains back, leaving wet, cold, ordinary stone.

Still standing.

first down the stair, running across the wet stone to the old man at the wall. He's still standing, one hand on the shield, one hand on the stone. Grey all over, but his colour coming back in faint patches as the tide pulls away: his eyes, the red of his scars, the brown of his hand.

standing in front of him, looking up into his face. His eyes are open. They see her.

hearing his name in her voice, for the first time in two years. And the faintest smile, under the beard, in the scars.

And he doesn't fall. He stays exactly where he stood, shield to the stone, hand on the wall: an old soldier standing guard in the dawn. Dead on his feet. Behind him, the wall of light he raised still standing.

(No SFX.)

On a stretch of blank sea, alone, left behind by the falling tide: a small figure on her knees. Ysel, fraying: her grey half almost gone, dotted lines where a shoulder, a cheek, an ear should be, her pale half clutching at the dissolving edge of herself. Her shadow nowhere.

her pale eye wet, her voice a whisper that carries all the way across the white.