A Fire in the North

by David Bilsborough

  ‘Destroy Drauglir!’ Kuthy and Elfswith cried out in unison, astonishent as evident in their eyes as in their voices. Even Ceawlin lifted her head to stare at Bolldhe.

  ‘Perhaps if you shouted it a little louder,’ Nibulus rounded on the three of them, ‘Drauglir himself might even hear. I’m sure he’d be very interested to know our plans.’

  ‘So that is the plan, then?’ Bolldhe asked for confirmation. ‘To destroy him?’

  Nibulus shifted a little and began scratching his stubble. ‘Well, yes, I suppose.’

  ‘SUPPOSE? SUPPOSE!’ Bolldhe cried shrilly. ‘What d’you mean, “suppose”? These past few weeks have been the hardest in my life! I’ve been dragged over mountain, marsh and forest, almost lost my life more times than I can count, and now you’re suggesting you’re not even sure why?’

  ‘He knows exactly why,’ Kuthy cut in, ‘and you should too. By Dzugota, is it really such a mystery? Zibelines! Amethyst! MONEY – that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it, Nib?’

  Four pairs of eyes narrowed on the Peladane: the two mage-priests’, the shaman’s and Bolldhe’s. Nibulus continued scratching his stubble agitatedly. It was not in his nature to squirm, but squirm he did on this occasion.

  ‘Well?’ Appa demanded hoarsely. He of all of them had suffered the worst, and he felt sick to the pit of his leathery old stomach to think that their leader did not even believe in the quest.

  ‘Well . . . well, put it this way,’ Nibulus muttered. ‘Yes.’

  A strange sibilant noise ensued. They were not sure if it came from the ice-laden wind that coursed up from the deep valleys outside or the scaly rasping of breath in Ceawlin’s throat. It might even have been the sound of Nibulus’s frying face. But to Bolldhe it seemed like the sound of the atmosphere crystallizing around them all.

  Appa cleared his throat. ‘I think perhaps it’s time we put our cards on the table. Where exactly does everyone stand on this rather important issue, hmm?’ His voice remained calm, but some might detect a hint of hysteria there.

  ‘Already done that, me,’ Kuthy said glibly, continuing to stare hard at the Peladane. ‘Your turn now, Nib.’

  Nibulus declined to comment, preferring instead to scrutinize the stubble scrapings under his fingernails.

  ‘My purposes have always been the same,’ Wodeman stated proudly. ‘The Earth must be protected.’

  ‘And I think I speak for both myself and Appa,’ Finwald said, ‘in that as far as we’re concerned nothing has changed. Like Wodeman, we’re here to kill a rawgr.’

  ‘I’m here to see that Bolldhe does whatever Lord Cuna desires him to,’ Appa corrected him.

  ‘Nothing’s changed with me, either,’ Bolldhe claimed. ‘I never had a bloody clue why I’m here, and I still don’t. What about you, Paulus?’

  ‘My plans are just the same as when I started out too,’ Paulus agreed. ‘I’m in it for the money. Just like Wintus.’

  ‘You mean you knew?’ Appa cried, aghast.

  ‘Of course,’ Paulus replied. ‘He’s a Peladane, isn’t he? That’s what they’re always after. Why, what did you think?’

  ‘Oh Lord,’ Appa breathed, ‘I think I’m going to be sick . . .’

  ‘Look, you idiots!’ Nibulus suddenly exclaimed. ‘What is the big surprise? Like Paulus says, I’m a Peladane! We fight wars! That’s what we do! War needs feeding, and it has an insatiable appetite. At the moment we’re fighting an ongoing crusade against the Villans, and it’s draining every last copper zlat from our account. Now I don’t doubt any of those who say there’s nothing of value left in the Maw nowadays, but if we can pull off one or two quests against Evil, everyone loves us – we’re the golden boys. It doesn’t matter if Evil never existed in the first place. Try to look at the big picture. And Melhus is so remote, nobody’s going to know any different.’

  Appa drew his grimy stick of a hand slowly down his face. ‘So why not just hole up for a few months in, say, Hawdan Valley, or even Myst-Hakel? Lie low, then come back home with your filthy lies? No one would be any the wiser.’

  ‘They might,’ Paulus said. ‘There’s always a chance word might get back from those places, if not this year, then next, or even in ten years. And then where would their reputation be?’

  They all looked at the Peladane.

  ‘It’s true,’ he admitted. ‘I can’t say myself, my father or indeed any of my household really believe in the legends of Drauglir’s rise, or the stories that have been doing the rounds lately. All those adventurer types who came back from the north with their scary stories, well, they’re bound to, aren’t they? Sounds so much more exciting than the truth, doesn’t it? Those liars!’

  Bolldhe was almost too stunned at the Peladane’s hypocrisy to utter a word, but he just about managed, ‘Perhaps they were just looking at the big picture.’

  ‘Maybe you and your father should have listened to the stories of the ones who didn’t come back,’ Appa added morbidly.

  ‘Quite,’ Bolldhe agreed. ‘And which type are we going to end up as, eh? The returning liars or the ones who stayed to keep the Dead company?’

  ‘As far as Wintus Hall is concerned,’ Nibulus went on, ignoring them, ‘Drauglir died on that day five hundred years ago. The Peladanes burnt his corpse to a blackened husk and built a sturdy vault around what was left of it where it lay atop the ziggurat. But we need popular support. And the legend and all the gossip, and – excuse me for saying this, Finwald – Finwald’s visions, it was all so conveniently timed. A simple quest, no real danger, and we’re back in business! The zibelines pour in from every quarter!’

  ‘But the Dead are abroad, aren’t they?’ Finwald reminded his old friend pointedly.

  ‘. . . Yes,’ Nibulus admitted with a nervous laugh. ‘Hadn’t really accounted for that, I must admit.’

  It was one of the maxims of Cunaism that disillusionment is a fine thing, in that anything which might remove a false idea, and thus bring one closer to the truth, is to be lauded. But to see the utter despondency in the faces of Bolldhe and the three priests, one might be forgiven for doubting this. Appa looked mortified, even though it was not his religion that was being ethically disembowelled before them. Both he and Wodeman seemed to be having a great deal of difficulty in taking all this in. Finwald merely seemed disappointed – not at his friend’s religion but at his friend. He knew now why he had been barred from all those ‘top-level’ meetings at Wintus Hall earlier that year. Still, he had to hand it to the lad, it must have taken a great deal of courage for a Peladane to admit all that he had just admitted; maybe the presence of the Lightbearers was rubbing off on him after all.

  Even Bolldhe, the seen-it-all, done-it-all master of cynicism who had ceased to believe in anything long years past, was saddened. His hand touched upon something hard and sharp upon the cave floor where he was sat. On examination it turned out to be a shard of the slate Nibulus had hurled at him the previous night. The G for Gwyllch was still visible.

  ‘How things change,’ Bolldhe said pensively, half to himself. ‘When I was a kid, the heroes were only heroes for how they died, not how they lived. They could be the biggest shit in the seven counties, and yet if they died a hero’s death, the skalds would sing their praises for all eternity. A bit like old Gwyllch back there. But nowadays . . . well, maybe things haven’t changed that much, after all; now, instead of a hero’s death, it’s a hero’s hoard.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Appa enquired, only half-interested.

  ‘What I mean is, the only way any of us will be remembered these days is by the wealth we amass by the time we die. “Look at this grave,” they say. “That fellow may be dead, but he’s got ten times more zlats than I’ll ever have; what a hero!” ’

  Nibulus avoided any eye contact with Bolldhe thereafter. He also avoided any further mention of the banishment to which he had sentenced their ‘faithless coward’ earlier. He still did not care for the man, and neither did he trust him; that vision of Bolldhe, back in Eot
unlandt, standing over a helpless Appa with a poleaxe – one of the thieves’ weapons at that – on the very brink of initiation into their number . . . such a vision was not so easy to banish from the mind. But the saving of the Dhracus was testament plain enough for anyone that Bolldhe was not a complete coward, and taking into account all that had been disclosed just now, well . . . the Peladane decided to simply drop the whole subject.

  Bolldhe, on the other hand, was still in two minds about what to do next. He had just been invited to join, for a while at least, the Tivor and his extraordinary friends upon one of their journeys. It was a tempting offer; the chance to travel alongside one of the foremost heroes of Lindormyn, see some of the wonders he saw; the chance to be a part of ‘the legend’, no matter how small; the chance maybe to fly. And it would certainly be a way out of this whole Melhus mess, which now looked far more frightening and perilous than it had done at any other time. And a clean break from the dubious company of the Peladane and his men.

  Yes, it was a tempting offer, and one that a younger Bolldhe would have jumped at without hesitation. But for the older Bolldhe there was still the matter of Kuthy, and, put quite simply, Bolldhe could no longer stand the sight of the man. Just hearing his voice nowadays made his hackles rise.

  Heroes? he thought to himself. Bollocks!

  What Kuthy and Elfswith’s business together was exactly, the men from the south never did find out. There was enough despondency at that time to dull even the most inquisitive mind. In any case, the time for the parting of their ways was almost at hand, and neither group had any reason to take any further interest in the other’s affairs.

  In fact it was true to say that both parties were heartily looking forward to being rid of each other. As far as the Aescals were concerned, it came as no surprise whatsoever that Kuthy and Elfswith were partners; they truly did go together so well. Elfswith appeared to suffer from just about every character flaw that Kuthy did, and more besides: he was aloof, contemptuous, ignorant and even antagonistic when he could be bothered. But, unlike Kuthy, he did not even show any sign of that garrulousness and relaxed humour that the soldier of fortune was apt to display now and then.

  Nibulus had taken an instant dislike to him. As he would put it later, Elfswith was ‘one of those cocky little gits that could do with a damn good kicking’. The son of the Warlord Artibulus was not accustomed to being talked to in the way Elfswith did, but if this journey had taught him one thing, it was to keep his feelings to himself while stuck up an icy mountain hundreds of miles from civilization in the company of strange little men and their massive Wyverns.

  Paulus agreed. He never liked anyone, but Elfswith he found particularly detestable.

  ‘I’ve never been to Vregh-Nahov,’ the little man had said to him earlier. ‘Do they all wear great long coats like yours?’

  ‘They do,’ Paulus answered dryly, ‘even the women and children.’

  Elfswith snorted derisively. ‘Must be difficult for the kids; don’t they keep tripping up on the hem, or are they all nineteen feet tall too?’

  Paulus checked his anger and declined to reply. There was something very fishy about their host, and it was nagging the Nahovian greatly.

  Appa just thought he was rude, plain and simple. ‘They certainly deserve each other,’ he commented about Elfswith and Kuthy. Wodeman, however, was of the opinion that the Wyvern deserved a lot better than her present ‘master’.

  Only Finwald had nothing to say about Elfswith. From the start he had kept a low profile, and it was noticed that he avoided any eye contact with him. Elfswith, however, did not reciprocate this evasion, and of all the Peladane’s crew it was the young mage-priest who caught his attention. It was hard to say why, but he would often cock his head and stare at the downcast face of the Lightbearer appraisingly.

  It was only Bolldhe who reserved his judgement for the time being. He was merely curious. It was not often that people held much interest for him; the more one travels, the more people seem the same. But Elfswith he found intriguing, and it was this curiosity that resulted in his later uncovering one of Elfswith’s little secrets.

  Not for nothing did he wear a big coat . . .

  But decisions had to be made. Kuthy and Elfswith were keen to get on with their affairs, whatever they were, and wanted to be off as soon as could be. Now that Kuthy had found Elfswith and Ceawlin again, he would be doing his travelling by air. Nibulus and his men too had a decision to make, and it was one that could not be put off any longer.

  ‘Our business takes us first to Wrythe,’ Kuthy explained to them, ‘then after that we’re headed south-west to the Dragon Coast, and then Ghouhlem. If you’re still thinking about trying your luck with Wrythe, maybe we could put in a good word for you before you arrive, but as I said before, I don’t recommend it.’

  ‘Why not?’ Nibulus demanded. ‘You’re going there, aren’t you?’

  Elfswith made a loud show of stifling a laugh at this. The impudence of the man!

  ‘As you yourself said back in the forest,’ Kuthy explained, ‘word hasn’t come out of that place for a long time. Well, me and Elfswith have been there, and I can tell you without a word of a lie that there’s a very good reason for that. Don’t be fooled by the old stories of the Fasces, Nib, or that old chronicle of yours. Times have changed, and the Oghain no longer take kindly to outsiders. Of late there’ve been many southerners who’ve sought to exploit any hospitality there might be in that town on their way to the Maw – usually to their cost. The Jarl of Wrythe is not a nice man, and not to be buggered about with. Oh, he knows us three, and he’ll tolerate us for a short while, but any other strangers would do well to give him and his town as wide a berth as possible. Honestly.’

  ‘ “Honestly,” ’ Appa mimicked. ‘Are you sure you’re not just trying to keep us away for your own reasons?’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ Kuthy shrugged. ‘It’s no skin off my nose either way.’

  ‘No, I’ve heard rumours too,’ said Finwald. ‘Back in Nordwas there was talk of one party that had to give up on the Maw and come straight back just because they couldn’t get a boat across. Very strange place, Wrythe, it seems.’

  Nibulus had also heard the rumours. ‘It was always odds on we might have to steal a boat from them.’

  ‘Until we met friend Kuthy here,’ Wodeman reminded them.

  ‘You all still thinking of that ice bridge?’ asked Bolldhe.

  ‘Indeed.’ Nibulus nodded. ‘If what Tivor tells us is true – and there’s always a first time, right? – we could avoid Wrythe and save ourselves several days’ travel into the bargain.’

  Appa was crestfallen on hearing this. He was already missing the warmth of Eotunlandt, and was prepared to take any risk that might mean he could warm himself by a big fire in a comfortable longhouse, eat real dinners and sleep in a real bed.

  Nibulus reached under his Ulleanh and brought out his chronicle. He opened it at the back where there was a crude map, and pointed to it. ‘You know these mountains,’ he said to Elfswith, swallowing his pride. ‘How long d’you reckon it’ll take us to reach the coast?’

  ‘We could get there in a matter of hours,’ Elfswith replied, nodding towards the Wyvern, ‘but for you . . . I don’t know, two days?’

  ‘Two days, then. And you’re sure the ice is strong enough?’

  ‘It’ll be thin this time of year,’ Kuthy admitted, ‘but you should be able to get across to the other side.’

  ‘To Stromm Peninsula,’ Nibulus said. ‘And what after that?’

  ‘It is a land of fire and ice,’ Elfswith interrupted, ‘the most hostile land I have ever known . . .’ He fished about in a pocket and drew forth a candle, which he lit and held under his face for dramatic effect. ‘Here the four elements are at their fiercest and wage constant war with each other. Great jagged teeth of granite do thrust up through the ice that encrusts the land the whole island over. Mountains of fire there are, that brood like sleeping behemoths in whose infe
rnal depths dwell the terrible Jutul, the fire giants. If perchance you happen upon the great steaming, smoking fissures that reach out from their mountains across the ice field, mayhap you will hear the never-ending beat of hammer upon anvil, like unto war drums in the deeps –’

  ‘I once knew a fire giant,’ Bolldhe commented. ‘Big, friendly fellow he was. Made a great cup of ginger tea.’

  ‘ – and gales there be, howling like a host of demons, screaming from the very heart of Eisholm across the flat expanses where there be no shelter; winds filled with shards of ice and the insane voices of Chaos, ferocious enough to flay the very skin from your bones . . .’

  He looked around at the rapt faces of his audience and shared a barely perceptible smirk with Kuthy. ‘But I’m sure you’ll be all right,’ he concluded and snuffed out the candle.

  It was difficult to tell how seriously the assembled company took him, but Appa for one did not look very well.

  ‘Is it really so . . . terrible?’ he asked.

  ‘You can’t believe it unless you’ve been there,’ Elfswith solemnly replied.

  ‘And you have?’ asked Finwald suddenly. It was not doubt in his voice but an intense interest.

  Again, Elfswith gave him that long, hard stare. Then he answered, ‘I’ve never actually set foot in the place, but Ceawlin is a strong flyer. Yes, we’ve been there.’

  ‘But do you think this map is accurate?’ Nibulus pressed on.

  ‘Hard to say, really,’ Elfswith replied, ‘but the important thing is: see that mountain there? That’s Ravenscairn, the tallest peak on the north coast. Your map doesn’t say so, but it’s shaped like a cat’s tooth. Unique. If the weather’s clear you should be able to see it from many miles away. Once you cross the frozen sea and reach Stromm Peninsula, just keep heading north-west, and within a few days you’ll be in sight of it.’

  ‘Ravenscairn,’ Nibulus muttered. ‘And that’s right above the Maw, right?’

  ‘That’s the one. Just use the cat’s tooth to guide you in.’