A Fire in the North

by David Bilsborough

  ‘And then?’

  ‘And then you’re on your own. Truly alone. Like I said, I’ve never been to the Maw, and I don’t ever intend to. The Dead are on the move down there. If it’s death you’re looking for, you’ll find it in abundance in that place.’

  ‘But what do you know of the Dead?’ Finwald again cut in. There was a slight tremor in his voice which could have been fear or excitement.

  ‘Look,’ Kuthy took over, an uncharacteristic hint of earnestness in his voice, ‘we don’t go near those places. We don’t care for that sort of thing. But if you really are intent on going up against the Rawgr – if it’s actually alive – then I can guarantee there’ll be times when you’ll be confronted by the Dead. And maybe I can help you.’

  The company leant forward and listened intently to what he had to say.

  ‘It is in the nature of our business that myself and Elfswith have had need to look into such matters as necromancy – no, it’s no problem, Elfswith, they’re all right – and in the course of our search we’ve at times come across many mutually conflicting legends from all over the world. These may or may not be of any use to you, but the one thing that they do seem to have in common is: if you want to put the walking Dead back to sleep, you must sever the link between brain and heart, thus destroying the life force that reanimates the body.’

  ‘So,’ Nibulus considered, his thoughts hovering somewhere between professionalism and relish, ‘decapitation?’

  ‘That would do the trick, yes.’

  ‘Severing the spinal column,’ the Peladane went on quickly. ‘Skewering the heart or brain . . . Ripping out the heart or brain . . . Total immolation by fire or acid . . . Smashing the entire head to a pulpy mass . . .’

  ‘Yes, yes, that sort of thing,’ Kuthy replied, frowning at the Peladane. ‘I’m sure the possibilities are endless for one as experienced and imaginative as yourself.’

  ‘Oh they are indeed,’ Nibulus agreed.

  ‘Just make sure you’ve got the right weapons, that’s all. Clubs will be useless in the hands of any but the strongest,’ he said, eyeing Appa and his crow’s-beak staff doubtfully. ‘And if I were you, Wodeman, I’d try to pick up something a little sturdier than that quarterstaff of yours. I don’t doubt both it and you are strong enough to crush a few heads, but you could find yourself up against more than just a few. Also, stabbing weapons including arrows are only good if you’re really accurate.’

  ‘Slicing weapons, then,’ Nibulus concluded happily, gripping his sword Unferth.

  ‘Exactly. You, Paulus and Bolldhe here should be fine. Yours are heavy enough. But, Finwald, that sword-cane might work all right against town ruffians, but you’ll need something with a lot more weight behind it in the Maw.’

  Finwald seemed deep in thought. Suddenly he said, ‘Would a silver blade do?’

  ‘Silver?’ Kuthy repeated in surprise. ‘That’s for rawgr-slaying. Right now we’re only getting the Dead out of your way.’

  Finwald held the man’s stare silently.

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose it would work, indeed,’ Kuthy acknowledged, ‘if you’ve got one handy. What’s good for the Daemon is good for the Dead, as they say. But if I were you I wouldn’t go risking it on those stiffs. Save it for Drauglir himself. What would you do if it broke, or got snatched away from you?’

  ‘Oh, that’s no problem,’ Bolldhe broke in. ‘Finwald can use his silver one against the Dead if he wants to. When it comes to putting paid to the Rawgr, I’m the one who—’

  ‘Not another word,’ Finwald said darkly and again lowered his eyes to the floor.

  Elfswith regarded the pair of them for a long moment but did not say another word.

  Later that day they left the shelter of the cave and continued on their way through the mountains, heading gradually down towards the coast. Though the Peladane and his men were keen to be rid of their eel-like guide and his strange friends as soon as they could, it was clear from even the most cursory glance that they did not have a hope of negotiating their way unaided through the terrain they found themselves in. The Giant Mountains were wild and terrible, and only Elfswith and Kuthy knew the path through them.

  It was a land encrusted in ice half a mile thick, snow that never melted, freezing fog and vertiginous falls. The cold was quite unbelievable, and they realized that they would not survive a single night out in the open. They had to get down to lower ground as swiftly as possible, for even a short delay might be the end of them. How even their guides could find a way through this semi-vertical land, they would never know.

  There came sounds too, from high peaks above and deep valleys below, that were inexplicable to these men from the south. Occasionally a sudden tumble of snow or rocks would be followed by a forlorn hooting noise, sometimes several at once, which would cause Zhang to drop his head and utter a strange, low, hitherto unheard whinny. Whether these hootings were voices or something entirely different, neither Kuthy nor Elfswith would say. They would just wrap their outer garments more tightly about them and forge on. At such times, Bolldhe was interested to note, even the Wyvern would glance about herself nervously, her wings involuntarily rising as though she longed to take to the air and be rid of this place.

  Clearly the Aescals were stuck with their present companions for a while longer, and for once they could only be grateful. They were continually aware that at any moment Kuthy could hop on board the Wyvern along with his friend, and the three of them could take their leave with nothing more than a casual wave and a valedictory flick of the creature’s tail. Any resentment Nibulus and his men had felt towards the oily duo abated for the time being.

  Towards the end of the first day the fog lifted somewhat till the sun shone pale and weak in the western sky. By then they had reached a high saddle of land strung between two peaks and from there could see clearly for miles both to the north and south. Behind them, gripped by cold, the giant peaks crowded together as if to keep out the intrusive light of the sun, resentfully guarding their overshadowed secrets from prying eyes. Mist crawled constantly up from the depths of sheer-sided valleys that never saw daylight, its clammy breath snaking up snow-filled gullies and spilling over the narrow cols that topped them.

  But ahead of them the Giant Mountains at last tumbled down towards the sea, and the whole of the Far North lay spread before them. As before in the Blue Mountains when they had first gazed upon the Rainflats extending below, the feelings of the company combined a giddy mix of excitement and dread. But this time it was magnified tenfold, for their final destination lay there before their eyes:

  Melhus.

  In that filtered light it was difficult to tell apart the land, the sea or the ice that covered both, and impossible to discern exactly where the mainland ended and Melhus itself started. But the bulk of the island was clear to all. It lay in a dead sea devoid of any colour. Black and smoking, pocked with ice-fields the hue of dried, flaking vomit, it sprawled north as far as the eye could see. The conical volcanoes that disfigured its surface would occasionally flare like ripe, angry pustules, erupting with a sound like some giant hacking phlegm in the early morning, only to discharge thin streams of glowing matter that spread sickly across the landscape. Melhus Island, tinged with great chunks of floating ice, lay like a dead leviathan sprawling in the scum of its own putrescence, alien and forbidding.

  Bolldhe turned to look at his companions. The evening light made their ruddy faces glow, and the unstill air whipped their hair about. Kuthy even allowed them to take turns with his telescope. They passed it round in trembling hands, and gazed intently at the land below. As they did so, Bolldhe studied their countenances, each one in turn. It was with these men he would be entering that land shortly, and he wished to gauge the measure of them all. Doubt, apprehension even fear; these he knew they must be feeling. But what other thoughts were going on behind those roseate faces, he could not tell. For each of them it was a private matter.

  And what of himself? What words could possibl
y describe the confusion of emotions, the tide of memories and the flashes of prescience that filled his mind? Not even he knew the whole of them. But there was, as he stared upon that dread isle, as the briny smell of the sea seeped into his consciousness from afar, an undercurrent of feeling that he could not deny.

  Death.

  A voice at his side startled him from these dark thoughts. It was Kuthy.

  ‘There it is then, folks: Melhus. I hope you’re happy now. And it’s at this point that we finally leave Eotunlandt! From this pass onward we are officially in the Far North.’

  ‘Officially?’ asked Nibulus.

  ‘Well, spiritually. Once we start down this mountain you’ll feel the difference. No more weirdness, you’ll be glad to know, Paulus.’

  This last was said with a slight sneer, but the Nahovian mercenary resolutely refused to rise to the bait. ‘I don’t recall any weirdness in Eotunlandt,’ he said bluntly, and set off down the slope in long strides, his black boots sinking deep into the fresh snow as he descended.

  After a minute, the others caught up with him, Ceawlin flying overhead. ‘That’s the spirit,’ Kuthy called out from behind. ‘There’s nothing weird about Eotunlandt . . . Nothing fey.’

  Paulus did not respond.

  ‘Isn’t that right, Elfswith?’ Kuthy went on.

  ‘Oh absolutely,’ Elfswith agreed, and then, half-turning, he waved back in the direction they had come. ‘Bye, girls!’ he called casually.

  Paulus carried on down the slope, ignoring the taunts. His teeth were clenched, and his eye fixed straight ahead. But suddenly he stopped dead in his tracks. As if in answer to Elfswith’s farewell, he had just heard a chorus of laughter behind him, with one or two voices calling back, ‘Bye, Elfswith!’

  It was childlike girlish laughter, and filled the pristine air with a spangling cadence of musical notes, falling upon Paulus’s ears like the soft chilling caress of snowflakes, burning through his blood as his heart began pounding, echoing among the mountains on the very edge of Eotunlandt, strangely, weirdly, almost like . . .

  ‘. . . HULDRES!’ Paulus screamed in rage, and spun around.

  There, back at the spot where the company had recently been standing, stood a line of five huldre girls. Their hair was long, golden and wild. Their tiny bodies were tightly clad in gossamer slips, and they stood on tip toe waving excitedly at the departing men, and arching their backs in that way only girls can do.

  With a scream of fury, the mercenary snatched out his sword and charged up the bank. Snow flew everywhere under his onslaught, but as he approached them, the huldres began to fade. Though a white glow still emanated from within them, their outlines wavered, their forms faltered and became unsure. To the last, their bright smiles flashed, and their little eyes sparkled wickedly.

  Then, just as he finally reached them, they giggled ‘Bye, Paulus’ in tiny sing-song voices, and were gone. Paulus’s sword hissed through the air towards where they had stood, and he toppled over, his face plunging with a muffled grunt into the snow.

  On the extreme edge of his hearing, as if it came from the other side of the mountains, a final flurry of laughter burst out. Then that too faded and echoed into nothingness.

  With a spluttering gasp Paulus wrenched himself from the snowdrift and flailed madly about. His one sound eye bulged redly, and the rest of his face pulsed horribly.

  ‘Oh no,’ breathed Nibulus. ‘Here we go again.’

  There, indeed, they went again. Neither Kuthy nor Elfswith had ever witnessed one of Paulus’s fits, and they gladly made the most of the visual treat.

  By nightfall they were still travelling, yet were still high in the mountains. The cold had numbed nearly all feeling from their bodies, their faces were wind-burned raw, and they all felt exhausted by the never-ending, monotonous tramp downhill. It was with immense relief, therefore, when they heard Elfswith announce that they were now approaching somewhere they could shelter for the night ahead.

  It turned out to be another of his ‘homes’. Like the previous one, it was a cave, but unlike that – merely a temporary shelter – this one was genuinely a residence of sorts. Drawing near, however, the men from Nordwas could not even spot a habitation. When Elfswith proudly announced that they had arrived, they peered at the snow banks all around and shrugged in confusion.

  ‘Where?’ Nibulus asked finally, feeling that dark presage of danger an outsider always feels when he has been led into a dead end by a local.

  From the outside Elfswith’s proud abode resembled nothing more than a lattice of tree roots, thickly covered in icicles, trailing across the exposed surface of a low bank of rock. But, at a word from their host – or rather a melodic rhyme that seemed to set the air around them tingling – the roots slowly parted and transmogrified into a beaded curtain that glowed warmly with refracted light. Through this the wondering company passed, one by one, into a grotto filled delightfully with light, warmth and colour.

  ‘Welcome to my home, you lucky citizens,’ the little man chirped.

  The first thought to enter Bolldhe’s head was that he had stepped into one of the cave temples of Muzhtelig-Kuchtyr, found east of the Kro Steppes. Efreet fingers of fragrant incense coursed idly through the air and wove among the clutter of artefacts and paraphernalia heaped in every available space. Pelts as sundry and diverse as those their host currently wore on his back were strewn across the floor or hung from the walls. Myriad points of glittering light sparkled from every surface that could be seen amid this treasure trove.

  Yet this place was too random, its artefacts too eclectic, to be the spoils of any one temple. There seemed to be items derived from every country, culture and cult in Lindormyn, all randomly gathered together and crammed into one place: bells, bongs, bronze gongs, vials and vestments, librams of songs; an armillary sphere, an artillery spear, an orrery, a sextant, staves and wands; amulets, anvils, augers and awls, an anemometer, ancient ciboria, censers, caducei, candlesticks and cawls; figurines and idols, mortars and pestles, chemicals, scalpels, measuring vessels; dried plants in crates, pickled invertebrates, musical instruments, prismatic seeing instruments, preserved beasts, cultures and yeasts, a long-spouted retort, a half-written report, armour, weapons, both long and short; strings of crystals, crystal balls, treasures and relics from ancient halls, and wall upon wall, shelf after shelf of literature, pictures, engraving and inscription of all and every type of description.

  It was a true collector’s den. There were artefacts that Nibulus and the two mage-priests recognized from their own cults but which had passed out of usage centuries ago. There were ill-favoured idols from dark religions right next to silken vexilla bearing images from lighter cults. There were grotesque masks of animist design (some of which Wodeman had himself used) placed next to state-of-the-art alchemical instruments (all of which Finwald wished he had had the opportunity to use). And festooned across it all hung calligraphy-daubed banners of sendal and gauze.

  ‘Quite a collection you have here,’ Nibulus remarked with an uncertain frown, and immediately realized the lameness of this understatement.

  ‘Knowledge, belief and magic; past, present and, more than likely, future,’ Finwald summed up with a touch more perspicacity. He was rapt at the sight of it.

  ‘I wouldn’t quite go that far,’ Elfswith responded, ‘but I do take an interest in such matters.’

  They stared at him, but he did not elaborate further, beckoning them instead to take their ease while he walked around ‘singing’ the various lamps into life.

  Soon everyone, Ceawlin and Zhang included, was warm, comfortable and rested. Elfswith produced food in abundance, mainly types of meat, but from where they could not tell. Strings of tiny silver bells and wind chimes fashioned from various types of scented wood stirred to life, and a soporific ambience hung over all.

  Bolldhe stared about in wonder. This to him was like a trophy room of all the lands he had ever visited, and many more besides. He was beginning to wonder ag
ain if he really ought to be passing up the opportunity of travelling further with these two, for a while at least. Finwald, too, was indulging in nostalgia, poring over various familiar alchemical tomes, and smiling at certain instruments from his youth. He was sure he even recognized the golden astrolabe that once stood in the Dome of Spheres back in Qaladmir, all those years ago. Meanwhile Nibulus and Paulus took time to appraise a cluttered heap of strange and exotic weapons and armour assembled in one corner; while Appa was more morbidly interested in the crowded display of figurines standing on a shelf in a wall niche.

  ‘Every religion, every land, every material,’ he muttered, wondering at it all yet disapproving. He, like the others, could not begin to guess what purposes lay in Elfswith’s mind for this collection. Or in the Tivor’s, come to that.

  Wodeman was less enchanted than his fellows. He contented himself with examining the fantastic collection of musical instruments to be found in every part of the cave. He smiled shrewdly and, of all of his company, thought that he could best begin to make guesses about their new companion.

  Exactly why Elfswith was suddenly being so hospitable (for it was clear his only purpose earlier was to meet up with Kuthy) they did not know. But they guessed it was due to the quiet persuasions of the soldier of fortune himself. Kuthy might be manipulative and self-seeking, but it did at least seem that he felt he owed his reluctant ‘hirelings’ something in return for all the trouble he had put them through.

  Elfswith even informed them – somewhat sullenly, it had to be said – that they could if they must rest here for a couple of days before embarking upon the final leg of their quest. It came as an even greater surprise to find that Kuthy had further persuaded him into providing them with an assortment of warm pelts for the icy days ahead, and as many other supplies as they could carry. In all, everything they had been hoping to purchase for themselves at Wrythe. It seemed too good to be true.

  Bolldhe, having come across such generosity from strangers many times before, was content to accept this benificence as it stood. But Appa could not shake off his earlier suspicion that Kuthy and Elfswith were trying to steer them away from Wrythe for their own purposes, especially as neither of the pair had ever disclosed just why they were going there. All they would vouchsafe was that, before going on to Wrythe, they would accompany the party down to the Last Shore.