The Nameless Day. Sara Douglass

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      The ascent for the final few miles to the opening of the pass was a sombre one. It was still dark, and cold this high up, but that was not the reason. Thomas was distant and silent, and sat hunched in his saddle as if he thought all the imps of hell were about to descend upon him.

      He’d not explained his nightmare of the previous night—even though Marcel and the hosteller had sat by his side until it was time to rise—and in fact had hardly spoken, apart from a few grudging monosyllabic replies, since they’d begun their ride towards the pass.

      Thomas was afraid, deeply afraid. If the archangel himself fled before the evil, then what hope had he?

      He did not doubt that what he had seen in his dream had been, if not perfect fact, then an accurate representation of the way things lay. All knew that dreams were a window between the world of man and the world of spirits, and dreams were the perfect vehicle by which demons and imps could invade the world of mankind. It was why no woman should ever sleep in a chamber alone, because, faulted with the weakness of Eve, lone women were ever likely to succumb to the blandishments of imps and demons.

      In past years Thomas had seen three babies, hideously deformed, that were the obvious results of women who’d allowed (perhaps even begged) the minions of hell to seduce them.

      The babies had been killed, the women burned.

      But this nightmare was not so easily disposed of. It lingered on the edges of Thomas’ mind, making him jump at every shadow, and wince at every glimpse of a looming mountain peak. He could feel the eyes of his companions upon him, and he knew they thought he was scared of the dangerous passage ahead.

      True, but not for the reasons they believed. The danger of a footslip on a narrow path did not concern him so much as the thought that the Brenner Pass might hold more evil than he could possibly deal with.

      Saint Michael aid me, Saint Michael aid me, he prayed over and over in a silent litany.

      But the dream had planted the seeds of doubt in Thomas’ mind, and he feared that St Michael might not be strong enough to aid him.

      And if the great archangel was afraid and impotent against the evil, then what chance had he?

      “Thomas?”

      Etienne Marcel, riding close to his side.

      “Thomas, do not fear too greatly—”

      “You cannot know of what I fear!”

      “Thomas.” Marcel leaned over and placed a hand on Thomas’ arm. “I do know. It is not the heights and the depths and the treacherous ice paths awaiting us which fret at you, but the unknowns. This is ungodly territory, and you and I both know it. Be strong, Thomas. We will prevail.”

      Thomas looked up, stunned by Marcel’s perception…and equally stunned by the degree of comfort the man had imparted with his words and touch.

      Thomas gave a small nod, and briefly laid his own hand over Marcel’s. “I thank you. You are truly a man of God.”

      Marcel’s mouth gave a peculiar twist, and СКАЧАТЬ