There was something under the overhang where shed been lying. It was Lyras little canvas rucksack, and from the weight of it he knew without looking that the alethiometer was still inside it.
His voice was resonant, harsh, but breathless. Will sensed that he was badly hurt. Had he wounded this dark opponent?
The wind was beating more wildly than ever, and a drop or two of rain splashed onto Wills face.
"No! Youre wrong!" cried Will. "I wasnt looking for anything like that! Thats not what I was looking for at all!"
The hollow under the rock was empty. Lyra was gone.
But— "Wheres Lyra?" he cried aloud.
He stopped to take in several rattling breaths.
Will turned back to the dead man, his father.
He stood up slowly and looked down at the dead witch, at her rich black hair, her flushed cheeks, her smooth pale limbs wet with rain, her lips parted like a lovers.
And then Stanislaus Grumman, Jopari, John Parry hesitated.
Then the man said, "Give me your other hand."
He cried out with shock and twisted away at once, but the grip was tenacious. And Will was savage now. He felt he was at the very end of everything; and if it was the end of his life, too, he was going to fight and fight till he fell.
"And now those two powers are lining up for battle. And each of them wants that knife of yours more than anything else. You have to choose, boy. Weve been guided here, both of us— you with the knife, and me to tell you about it."
The mans free hand felt down Wills left arm, and his fingertips moved gently over the wrist and on to the swollen palm and with the utmost delicacy on to the stumps of Wills two lost fingers.
"Im the only man who knows what the knife is for. Hold your hand up like that. Dont move."
"Every moment."
The stormy air was electric with whispers, and in the tearing of the wind Will could hear other sounds, too: confused echoes of cries and chanting, the clash of metal on metal, pounding wingbeats that one moment sounded so close they might actually be inside his head, and the next so far away they might have been on another planet. The rocks underfoot were slippery and loose, and it was much harder going down than it had been climbing up; but he didnt falter.
"And you know how to use it?"
"Yes, but—-"
"Listen," said the man, sitting up with a struggle. "Dont interrupt. If youre the bearer of the knife, you have a task thats greater than you can imagine. A child... How could they let it happen? Well, so it must be.... There is a war coming, boy. The greatest war there ever was. Something like it happened before, and this time the right side must win. Weve had nothing but lies and propaganda and cruelty and deceit for all the thousands of years of human history. Its time we started again, but properly this time...."
Too late. You havent any choice: youre the bearer. Its picked you out. And, whats more, they know youve got it; and if you dont use it against them, theyll tear it from your hands and use it against the rest of us, forever and ever."
"We would have done, earlier. But his task was over once hed led us to you."
Then one of the figures spoke.
There are two great powers," the man said, "and theyve been fighting since time began. Every advance in human life, every scrap of knowledge and wisdom and decency we have has been torn by oneside from the teeth of the other. Every little increase in human freedom has been fought over ferociously between those who want us to know more and be wiser and stronger, and those who want us to obey and be humble and submit.
Will was shaking his head. It couldnt be true, but it was: Lyra was gone, Lyra was captured, Lyra was lost.
But Will was there before she could find her feet, and the subtle knife was at her throat.
Will was silent. The speaker went on: "Other angels have other functions, and other powers. Our task is simple: We need you. We have been following the shaman every inch of his way, hoping he would lead us to you, and so he has. And now we have come to guide you in turn to Lord Asriel."
"Have you won your fights?"
"Not men, no. We are Watchers. Bene elim. In your language, angels."
"Father," he said, "Dad, Daddy ... Father... I dont understand why she did that. Its too strange for me. But whatever you wanted me to do, I promise, I swear Ill do it. Ill fight. Ill be a warrior. I will. This knife, Ill take it to Lord Asriel, wherever he is, and Ill help him fight that enemy. Ill do it. You can rest now. Its all right. You can sleep now."
Beside the dead man lay his deerskin pack with the oilskin and the lantern and the little horn box of bloodmoss ointment. Will picked them up, and then he noticed his fathers feather-trimmed cloak trailing behind his body on the ground, heavy and sodden but warm. His father had no more use for it, and Will was shaking with cold. He unfastened the bronze buckle at the dead mans throat and swung the canvas pack over his shoulder before wrapping the cloak around himself.
So he twisted and kicked and twisted again, but that hand wouldnt let go; and since it was his right arm being held, he couldnt get at the knife. He tried with his left, but he was being jerked around so much, and his hand was so painful and swollen, that he couldnt reach; he had to fight with one bare, wounded hand against a grown man.
They stood aside to let him pass, and he felt a tingle in the air as he went close to them, but he ignored it and concentrated on getting down the slope toward the little shelter where Lyra was sleeping.
"Ill be better soon. You have the knife, yes?"
Whoever he was, he wasnt a human being.
And there came just the first flicker of something else to both of them.
Will knew that the man was speaking the truth. But it wasnt a welcome truth. It was heavy and painful. The man seemed to know that, because he let Will bow his head before he spoke again.
Dimly he heard his own panting and the mans grunts and harsh breathing; and then by chance he got his leg behind the mans and hurled himself against his chest, and the man fell with Will on top of him, heavily. But never for a moment did that grip slacken, and Will, rolling around violently on the stony ground, felt a heavy fear tighten around his heart: this man would never let him go, and even if he killed him, his corpse would still be holding fast.
"Why didnt you stop the witch, then? Why did you let her kill him?"
"The knife," he went on after a minute. "They never knew what they were making, those old philosophers. They invented a device that could split open the very smallest particles of matter, and they used it to steal candy. They had no idea that theyd made the one weapon in all the universes that could defeat the tyrant. The Authority. God. The rebel angels fell because they didnt have anything like the knife; but now ..."
"But what must I do?"
"Who are you?" Will said. "Are you men, or—"
"Be careful," said Will.
"I dont understand," he said aloud. "Its too strange."
He was trembling violently, but he propped up his left hand with his right while the man spread more ointment over the stumps and wound a strip of linen tightly around the hand.
Will saw blazing blue eyes hi a haggard face with several days growth of beard on the stubborn jaw, gray-haired, drawn with pain, a thin body hunched in a heavy cloak trimmed with feathers.
The shaman saw a boy even younger than hed thought, his slim body shivering in a torn linen shirt and his expression exhausted and savage and wary, but alight with a wild curiosity, his eyes wide under the straight black brows, so like his mothers....
And before Will could stop her, she fell softly sideways, her hand on the hilt of the knife she had just taken from her own belt and pushed between her ribs.
"What did he ever do that you needed to kill nun?" he cried. Tell me that, if you can!"
And she looked at the dead man. Then she looked back at Will and shook her head sadly.
"No! No!" cried the witch Juta Kamainen, and fell down after him, clutching at her own heart, crashing clumsily into the rocky ground and struggling up again.
"No, I cant explain," she said. "Youre too young. It wouldnt make sense to you. I loved him. Thats all. Thats enough."
"Are you ill?"
She shook her head and whispered, "No. No! That cant be true. Impossible!"
"You might not think so, but thats what youve found," said the man in the darkness.
But in that same moment, as the lantern light flared over John Parrys face, something shot down from the turbid sky, and he fell back dead before he could say a word, an arrow in his failing heart. The osprey daemon vanished in a moment.
"All right," he said finally. "Ill come with you. But first I must wake Lyra."
The two dark figures of the bene elim had not moved. But they spoke: "You must come with us now. Lord Asriel needs you at once. The enemys power is growing every minute. The shaman has told you what your task is. Follow us and help us win. Come with us. Come this way. Come now."
In the dimness, he could see the witches who had been guarding Lyra all sitting or standing still.
He was painfully aware of the oath hed sworn to Lee Scoresby, and he hesitated before he broke it; but break it he did.
"Then youre a warrior. Thats what you are. Argue with anything else, but dont argue with your own nature."
Will could only sit stupefied.
He blew out the lantern and looked back at the dim shapes of his father, of the witch, of his father again before turning to go down the mountain.
"You were with my father all the time?"
Will said nothing. His head was ringing; this was no less difficult to understand than anything else.
"Because I loved him and he scorned me! I am a witch! I dont forgive!"
He sank his teeth into the hand on his forearm, but all that happened was that the man landed a dizzying blow on the back of his head. Then Will kicked again and again, and some of the kicks connected and some didnt, and all the time he was pulling, jerking, twisting, shoving, and still the grip held him fast.
"He had no idea."
"Did he know?"
Will felt no horror, only desolation and bafflement.
He felt for the pack hed been carrying and took something out, unfolding layers of oilskin and then striking a match to light a litde tin lantern. In its light, through the rain-dashed windy air, the two looked at each other.
But Will was weakening, and now he was crying, too, sobbing bitterly as he kicked and tugged and beat at the man with his head and feet, and he knew his muscles would give up soon. And then he noticed that the man had fallen still, though his hand still gripped as tight as ever. He was lying there letting Will batter at him with knees and head; and as soon as Will saw that, the last of his strength left him, and he fell helpless beside his opponent, every nerve in his body ringing and dizzy and throbbing.
"Yes," the man said hoarsely. Try and cure that, go on."
A thousand things jostled at his throat, and only the dashing rain cooled the hotness hi his eyes.
Will was silent. Then he said, "Yes, I suppose."
"But why should I fight them? Ive been fighting too much; I cant go on fighting. I want to—"
"Youre the boy with the knife?" he said, and his voice had the strange quality of those wingbeats.
A flicker crossed the corner of his vision, and his right hand darted up at once, and he found he was clutching a robin, a daemon, red-breasted, panicking.
Will hauled himself up painfully, peered through the deep darkness, and made out a blur of white on the ground beside the man. It was the white breast and head of a great bird, an osprey, a daemon, and it was lying still. Will tried to pull away, and his feeble tug woke a response from the man, whose hand hadnt loosened.
"What are you doing?" Will said.
Will was still lying on the stones, utterly spent. All he could see was the mans shape, crouching above him, but he couldnt see his face. The man was reaching sideways for something, and after a few moments a marvelous soothing coolness spread into his hand from the stumps of his fingers as the man massaged a salve into his skin.
"You fought for the knife?"
"I didnt want it! I dont want it now!" Will cried. "If you want it, you can have it! I hate it, and I hate what it does—"
His other hand let go at once, and he sat up.
And because she was a witch she wouldnt have been afraid of a boy, normally. But she was afraid of Will. This young wounded figure held more force and danger than shed ever met in a human before, and she quailed. She fell backward, and he followed and gripped her hair with his left hand, feeling no pain, feeling only an immense and shattering despair.
"Who are you?"
And as soon as the dressing was secure, the man slumped sideways and lay down himself. Will, still bemused by the blessed cool numbness in his hand, tried to sit up and look at him. But it was darker than ever. He felt forward with his right hand and found himself touching the mans chest, where the heart was beating like a bird against the bars of a cage.
And he shook her head like a rag and threw her back against the ground, half-stunning her. Her astonishment was almost greater than her fear of him, which was real enough, and she pulled herself up, dazed, and seized his shirt in supplication. He knocked her hand away.
But he was moving. He was feeling Wills right hand carefully with his free one. Wills hair stood on end.
But something made him stop.
"You must go to Lord Asriel," he said, "and tell him that Stanislaus Grumman sent you, and mat you have the one weapon he needs above all others. Like it or not, boy, you have a job to do. Ignore everything else, no matter how important it seems, and go and do this. Someone will appear to guide you; the night is full of angels. Your wound will heal now—Wait. Before you go, I want to look at you properly."
And as he turned down the last little gully before the place where hed left Lyra sleeping, he stopped suddenly. He could see two figures simply standing there, in the dark, waiting. Will put his hand on the knife.
They looked like statues, except that they were breathing, but they were scarcely alive. There were several black-silk-clad bodies on the ground, too, and as he gazed in horror from one to another of them, Will saw what must have happened: they had been attacked in midair by the Specters, and had fallen to their deaths, indifferently.
"You think things have to be possible? Things have to be true! He was my father, and neither of us knew it till the second you killed him! Witch, I wait all my life and come all this way and I find him at last, and you kill him...."
"Curing your wound. Keep still.”
The little lantern still flickered and flared as the draft through the ill-fitting window licked around the flame, and by its light Will knelt and put his hands on the mans body, touching his face, his shoulders, his chest, closing his eyes, pushing the wet gray hair off his forehead, pressing his hands to the rough cheeks, closing his fathers mouth, squeezing his hands.
"Yes."
And Will looked from them to Lyras rucksack and back again, and he didnt hear a word they said.
"Youve got the knife," he said. "Youre the knife bearer."
"Why did you do that?" he shouted. "Why did you kill him?"
"Yes, yes. But are you from this world? How do you know about it?"
"You dont know who he was," he cried. "He was my father!"
