Jack opened his eyes. The fog was shredding before a sudden sea wind. Rifts of blue appeared overhead.

“What were you thinking?” the old man said.

“Why—why, only that the fog was so thick,” stammered Jack. “And that it might not go away.”

“Lad, listen to me. The life force is ever moving, altering its appearance. Only death is unchanging.”

“B-But if it didn’tmove”—Jack felt a bleak terror from somewhere he couldn’t identify—“It w-would get dark forever. Like Father says happens when sinners are cast into outer darkness.”

“Thor’s hammer and anvil! Preserve me from Giles’ ravings!” The Bard raised his arms as though asking the thunder god to witness such idiocy. The crows on the roof—how long had they been there?—cawed loudly. It sounded almost like laughter.

“But it’s possible—it’s just barely possible…” the Bard said.

“What?” cried Jack.

“Keep your voice down. Shemay be working against us. Shemay be sending her thoughts across the sea. Her influence is lessened by passage over water. I didn’t notice her spell because it was too feeble to affect me. At this distance she can only work on a weak mind.”

“Hey,” said Jack.

“But I’ll fix her. I’ll throw up a barrier to chip her rotten fangs if she tries it again. Here.” The Bard felt inside his shirt and drew out a pendant on a chain. He settled it around Jack’s neck.

The boy had never seen it before, though he’d been with the old man for months and months. He held it up, his mouth in an O at the wonder of it. It was a square of heavy gold. On it was a pattern that might have been a sunburst, except that each ray had branches like a budding tree. As Jack looked the pendant vanished. He gasped. This was real magic. He could still feel the heaviness of the gold on his neck.

“That’s a rune for protection,” said the Bard. “I wore it when I walked through the Valley of Lunatics in Ireland. It kept my wits about me when others were losing theirs. You may keep it.”

“But, sir.” Jack felt close to tears again. No one had ever thought him worthy of such a gift. The Roman coin Father had found was destined for Lucy. “What if Frith attacks you?”

“Do not name her!She flies to the mention of her name. Don’t you worry about me,” the old man said gruffly. “I’ve peeled the hide off more than one monster in my life. Now let’s go make some fog.”

Jack didn’t know whether it was the rune or simply the joy of being cared for, but he felt strong and happy. He called up the waters of the earth. He pulled down clouds from the sky. He felt the wet smack of mist on his face and the soak of it in his clothes. His hair was plastered down, his chin dripped, and water trickled into his shoes. But he was as happy as a frog in a sunny pond.

He heard a rasping cough. His eyes flew open and saw nothing. The world had gone black. For an instant he was swept with panic. Then he heard the cough again. It was the Bard.

Night had fallen while Jack had been absorbed in his magic—pure, simple, innocent night. The fog he had called was so thick, every scrap of starlight was hidden from the earth. Jack felt for the door of the house. The cough came from there.

Inside, only a tiny coal shone in the fire pit. “Sir? Are you all right?” he whispered. It seemed right to whisper.

“In bed,” the old man said.

The boy felt his way to the truckle bed. He touched the Bard’s face and found, to his shock, that it was burning with fever. “I’ll build up the fire, sir, and make you a healing drink.”

“You’re a good boy,” the Bard said faintly.

Working quickly, Jack blew the coal into flame. He heated water mixed with willow bark. He added coriander to take the curse off the bitterness. This was a remedy he’d learned from Mother. Father wasn’t pleased when Mother taught him such things. They were women’s secrets, Father said, not fit for men, perhaps not safe for good Christians. Mother had smiled and gone on teaching.

“Foo,” said the Bard when he tasted it.

“Mother swears it brings down fever.”

“I’m sure it does. That doesn’t mean I have to like it.” The old man finished the drink. Presently, he doubled up with long, rattling coughs that frightened Jack.

“Take the pendant,” the boy cried. “You need protection worse than I.”

“Can’t,” said the Bard, struggling to talk. “Once given, can’t be returned. Anyhow, wanted you to have it.” He lay back, and Jack covered him with a sheepskin.

The boy rummaged through the stores at the far end of the house. He would have to set beans to soak. He would have to gather shellfish in the morning. How long could they go on like this without food from the village? How would they know when the wolf-headed men had gone?

Jack set the cauldron simmering with dried peas, onions, and turnips. He added a chunk of bacon that was only slightly green with age. The smell of food drove him mad with hunger, but it wouldn’t be ready for hours. Jack found a rock-hard chunk of bread and soaked it in cider. When he had a soft mush, he fed it to the Bard.

Jack was so tired, he kept tripping over things. His eyes blurred. His hands fumbled as he went about his chores. Yet he found time to light a bundle of coltsfoot and leave it smoldering on a stone shelf near the Bard’s bed. The smoke would ease the old man’s lungs.

Jack had no memory of lying down. He hadn’t meant to until he’d fetched more wood. But somehow his body sat down, and then it was only a short distance to the floor. At any rate, Jack was sound asleep with a sack of beans for a pillow when the Nightmare arrived.

The first thing Jack heard was the wind. It drove out of the sea and howled past the house, making the roof shake. It burrowed under the door. Cold air spread along the floor, and the fire sprang to life. Behind this was a rattling like pebbles rolling on a beach, except that it grew louder and louder until it burst upon Jack’s sleep like thunder.

He jumped up. Coals were being blown out of the fire pit by the wind gusting under the door. He ran to sweep them back. The roof groaned, and a huge chunk of thatch lifted up and was torn away. Four or five crows that had been sheltering there tumbled into the room and fluttered to the safety of the Bard’s bed. From a distance came the hideous pounding of hooves coming closer until the whole sky rang with it.

Jack could see the sky. It stretched over the gaping roof, cold and black and filled with heartless winking stars where there had been protecting fog before. He had to do something, but what? He couldn’t think. The pounding drove everything out of his brain. He wanted only to flee. He stepped back, and his foot came down on a live coal. The pain cleared his wits enough for him to realize what was happening.

It was the Nightmare. She’d returned under cover of darkness. She’d discovered the Bard’s weakness and had come to destroy him. Jack grasped the rune of protection around his neck. It was strangely warm—no, hot.It poured its heat into his body like a noonday sun.

Jack heard the Bard give a long, terrified wail. It was a dreadful sound, like a rabbit caught in the talons of a hawk. The old man thrashed, and the crows clung to the sheepskin over him. “Move! You’re scaring him!” shouted the boy, but the crows only clacked their beaks and held on grimly.

The thundering was almost overhead. It was worse than the worst winter storm. It was more violent than the sea dashing against a cliff. Jack had never heard such a loud noise before, and it dazed him. He clung to the bed and stared up at the hole in the roof. He was no more capable of moving than the crows.

Suddenly, out of the deep sky came a figure so large and so terrifying that Jack shouted and the birds shrieked in fear. It was a horse draped in shrouds of icicles that broke off and clattered into the room. Its body was gray, its mane was ragged and cobwebby, and it had too many legs!Jack didn’t count them, but he knew there were far more than there should have been.