FOURTEEN - BOLVANGAR LIGHTS-1

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    The fact that the gyptians had heard or seen nothing of Mrs. Coulter worried Farder  and John Faa more than they let Lyra know; but they werent to know that she was worried too. Lyra feared Mrs. Coulter and thought about her often.

    And whereas Lord Asriel was now “father,” Mrs. Coulter was never “mother.” The reason for that was Mrs. Coulters daemon, the golden monkey, who had filled Pantalaimon with a powerful loathing, and who, Lyra felt, had pried into her secrets, and particularly that of the alethiometer.

    And they were bound to be chasing her; it was silly to think otherwise. The spy-fly proved that, if nothing else.

    But when an enemy did strike, it wasnt Mrs. Coulter. The gyptians had plao stop aheir dogs, repair a couple of sledges, a all their ons into shape for the assault on Bolvangar. John Faa hoped that Lee Scoresby might find some ground gas to fill his smaller balloon (for he had tarently) and go up to spy out the land. However, the aeronaut atteo the dition of the weather as closely as a sailor, and he said there was going to be a fog; and sure enough, as soon as they stopped, a thick mist desded. Lee Scoresby knew hed see nothing from the sky, so he had to tent himself with cheg his equipment, though it was all iiculous order. Then, with n at all, a volley of arrows flew out of the dark.

    Three gyptian me down at once, and died so silently that no one heard a thing. Only when they slumped clumsily across the dog traces or lay uedly still did the  men notice what was happening, and then it was already too late, because more arrows were flying at them. Some men looked up, puzzled by the fast irregular knog sounds that came from up and down the line as arrows hurtled into wood or frozen vas.

    The first to e to his wits was John Faa, who shouted orders from the ter of the line. Cold hands an<bdi>９9liｂ?</bdi>d stiff limbs moved to obey as yet more arrows flew down like rain, straight rods of rain tipped with death.

    Lyra was in the open, and the arrows were passing over her head. Pantalaimon heard before she did, and became a leopard and knocked her over, making her less of a target. Brushing snow out of her eyes, she rolled over to try and see what was happening, for the semidarkness seemed to be overflowing with fusion and noise. She heard a mighty roar, and the g and scrape of lorek Byrnisons armor as he leaped fully clad over the sledges and into the fog, and that was followed by screams, snarling, g and tearing sounds, great smashing blows, cries of terror and roars of bearish fury as he laid them waste.

    But who was them? Lyra had seen no enemy figures yet. The gyptians were swarming to defend the sledges, but that (as even Lyra could see) made them better targets; and their rifles were not easy to fire in gloves and mittens; she had only heard four or five shots, as against the ceaseless knog rain of arrows.

    And more and more men fell every minute.

    Oh, John Faa! she thought in anguish. You didnt foresee this, and I didnt help you! But she had no more than a sed to think that, for there was a mighty snarl from Pantalaimon, and something— another daemon—hurtled at him and knocked him down, crushing all the breath out of Lyra herself; and then hands were hauling at her, lifting her, stifling her cry with foul-smelling mittens, tossihrough the air into anothers arms, and then pushing her flat down into the snow again, so that she was dizzy and breathless and hurt all at once. Her arms were hauled behind till her shoulders cracked, and someone lashed her wrists together, and then a hood was crammed over her head to muffle her screams, for scream she did, and lustily:

    “lorek! lorek Byrnison! Help me!”

    But could he hear? She couldnt tell; she was hurled this way and that, crushed onto a hard surface which then began to lurd bump like a sledge. The sounds that reached her were wild and fused. She might have heard lorek Byrnisons roar, but it was a long way off, and then she was jolting over rough ground, arms twisted, mouth stifled, sobbing with rage and fear. And strange voices spoke around her.

    “Pan...”

    “Im here, shh, Ill help you breathe. Keep still...”

    His mouse paws tugged at the hood until her mouth was freer, and she gulped at the frozen air.

    “Who are they?” she whispered.

    “They look like Tartars. I think they hit John Faa.”

    “No—”

    “I saw him fall. But he should have been ready for this sort of attack. We know that.”

    “But we should have helped him! We should have been watg the alethiometer!”

    “Hush. Pretend to be unscious.”

    There was a whip crag, and the howl of rag dogs. From the way she was being jerked and bounced about, Lyra could tell how fast they were going, and though she straio hear the sounds of battle, all she made out was a forlorn volley of shots, muffled by the distance, and then the creak and rush and soft paw thuds in the snow were all there was to hear.

    “Theyll take us to the Gobblers,” she whispered.

    The word severed came to their mind. Horrible fear filled Lyras body, and Pantalaimoled close against her.

    “Ill fight,” he said.

    “So will I. Ill kill them.”

    “So will lorek when he finds out. Hell crush them to death.”

    “How far are we from Bolvangar?”

    Pantalaimon didnt know, but he thought it was less than a days ride.

    After they had been driving along for such a time that Lyras body was in torment from cramp, the pace slaed a little, and somehly pulled off the hood.

    She looked up at a broad Asiatic face, under a wolverine hood, lit by flickering lamplight. His black eyes showed a glint of satisfa, especially when Pantalaimon slid out of Lyras anorak to bare his white ermih in a hiss.

    The mans daemon, a big heavy wolverine, snarled back, but Pantalaimon didnt flinch.

    The man hauled Lyra up to a sitting position and propped her against the side of the sledge. She kept falling sideways because her hands were still tied behind her, and so he tied her feet together instead and released her hands.

    Through the snow that was falling and the thick fog she saerful this man was, and the sledge driver too, how balanced in the sledge, how much at home in this land in a way the gyptia.

    The man spoke, but of course she uood nothing. He tried a different language with the same result. Theried English.

    “You name?”

    Pantalaimon bristled warningly, and she knew what he meant at once. So these men didnt know who she was! They hadnt kidnapped her because of her e with Mrs. Coulter; so perhaps they werent in the pay of the Gobblers after all.

    “Lizzie Brooks,” she said.

    “Lissie Broogs,” he said after her. “We take you nice plaice peoples.”

    “Who are you?”

    “Samoyed peoples. Hunters.”

    “Where are you taking me?”

    “Nice plaice peoples. You have panserbjorne?”

    “For prote.”

    “No good! Ha, ha, bear no good! We got you anyway!”

    He laughed loudly. Lyra trolled herself and said nothing.

    “Who those peoples?” the man asked , pointing back the way they had e.

    “Traders.”

    “Traders...What they trade?”

    “Fur, spirits,” she said. “Smokeleaf.”

    “They sell smokeleaf, buy furs?”

    “Yes.”

    He said something to his panion, who spoke back briefly. All the time the sledge eeding onward, and Lyra <big></big>pulled herself up more fortably to try and see where they were heading; but the snow was falling thickly, and the sky was dark, and presently she became too cold to peer out any longer, and lay down. She and Pantalaimon could feel each others thoughts, and tried to keep calm, but the thought of John Faa dead...And what had happeo Farder ?

    And would lorek mao kill the other Samoyeds? And would they ever mao track her down?

    For the first time, she began to feel a little sorry for herself.

    After a long time, the man shook her by the shoulder and handed her a strip of dried reindeer meat to chew. It was rank and tough, but she was hungry, and there was nourishment in it. After chewing it, she felt a little better. She slipped her hand slowly into her furs till she was sure the alethiometer was still there, and then carefully withdrew the spy-fly tin and slipped it down into her fur boot. Pantalaimo in as a mouse and pushed it as far down as he could, tug it uhe bottom of her reindeer-skin legging.

    When that was done, she closed her eyes. Fear had made her exhausted, and soon she slipped uneasily into sleep.

    She woke up wheion of the sledge ged. It was suddenly smoother, and when she opened her eyes there were passing lights dazzling above her, sht she had to pull the hood further over her head before peering out again. She was horribly stiff and cold, but she mao pull herself upright enough to see that the sledge was driving swiftly between a row of high poles, each carrying a glaring anbaric light. As she got her bearings, they passed through an opeal gate at the end of the avenue of lights and into a wide open space like ay marketplace or an arena for some game or sport. It erfectly flat and smooth and white, a<tt></tt>nd about a hundred yards across. Around the edge ran a high metal fence.

    At the far end of this arena the sledge halted. They were outside a low building, or a range of low buildings, over which the snow lay deeply. It was hard to tell, but she had the impression that tunnels ected one part of the buildings with aunnels humped uhe snow. At one side a stout metal mast had a familiar look, though she couldnt say what it reminded her of.

    Before she could take much more in, the man in the sledge cut through the cord around her ankles, and hauled her hly while the driver shouted at the dogs to make them still. A door opened in the building a few yards away, and an anbaric light came on overhead, swiveling to find them, like a searchlight.

    Lyras captor thrust her forward like a trophy, without letting go, and said something. The figure in the padded coal-silk anorak answered in the same language, and Lyra saw his features: he was not a Samoyed or a Tartar. He could have been a Jordan Scholar. He looked at her, and particularly at Pantalaimon.

    The Samoyed spoke again, and the man from Bolvangar said to Lyra, “You speak English?”

    “Yes,” she said.

    “Does your daemon always take that form?”

    Of all the ued questions! Lyra could only gape. But Pantalaimon answered it in his own fashion by being a fal, and laung himself from her shoulder at the mans daemon, a large marmot, which struck up at Pantalaimon with a swift movement and spat as he circled past on swift wings.

    “I see,” said the man in a tone of satisfa, as Pantalaimouro Lyras shoulder.

    The Samoyed men were looking expet, and the man from Bolvangar nodded and took off a mitten to reato a pocket. He took ></a>out a drawstring purse and ted out a dozen heavy s into the hunters hand.

    The two men checked the money, and then stowed it carefully, each man taking half. Without a backward glahey got in the sledge, and the driver cracked the whip and shouted to the dogs; and they sped away across the wide white arena and into the avenue of lights, gathering speed until they vanished into the dark beyond.

    The man ening the dain.

    “e in quickly,” he said. “Its warm and fortable. Dont stand out in the cold. What is your name ?”

    His voice was an English one, without any at Lyra could name. He sounded like the sort of people she had met at Mrs. Coulters: smart and educated and important.

    “Lizzie Brooks,” she said.

    “e in, Lizzie. Well look after you here, dont worry.”

    He was colder than she was, even though shed been outside for far longer; he was impatient to be in the warm again. She decided to play slow and dim-witted aant, and dragged her feet as she stepped over the high threshold into the building.

    There were two doors, with a wide space between them so that not too much warm air escaped. Ohey were through the inner doorway, Lyra found herself sweltering in what seemed unbearable heat, and had to pull open her furs and push back her hood.

    They were in a space about eight feet square, with corridors to the right a, and in front of her the sort of reception desk you might see in a hospital. Everything was brilliantly lit, with the glint of shiny white surfaces and stainless steel. There was the smell of food in the air, familiar food, ba and coffee, and u a faiual hospital-medical smell; and ing from the walls all around was a slight humming sound, almost too low to hear, the sort of sound you had to get used to mad.

    Pantalaimon at her ear, a goldfinow, whispered, “Be stupid and dim. Be really slow and stupid.”

    Adults were looking down at her: the man whht her in, another man wearing a white coat, a woman in a nurses uniform.

    “English,” the first man was saying. “Traders, apparently.”

    “Usual hunters? Usual story?”

    “Same tribe, as far as I could tell. Sister Clara, could you take little, umm, ao her?”

    “Certainly, Doctor. e with me, dear,” said the nurse, and Lyra obediently followed.

    They went along a short corridor with doors on the right and a teen on the left, from which came a clatter of knives and forks, and voices, and more cooking smells. The nurse was about as old as Mrs. Coulter, Lyra guessed, with a brisk, blank, sensible air; she would be able to stitch a wound or ge a bandage, but o tell a story. Her daemon (and Lyra had a moment of strange chill wheiced) was a little white trotting dog (and after a moment she had no idea why it had chilled her).

    “Whats your name, dear?” said the nurse, opening a heavy door. “Lizzie.” “Just Lizzie?” “Lizzie Brooks.” “And how old are you?” “Eleven.”

    Lyra had been told that she was small for her age, whatever that meant. It had never affected her sense of her own importance, but she realized that she could use the faow to make Lizzie shy and nervous and insignifit, and shrank a little as she went into the room.

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