A Fire in the North

by David Bilsborough

  The Majestic Head

  ‘WE’RE STILL ALIVE, THEN,’ Gapp murmured when dawn finally broke.

  He rose stiffly from his nest and flung the door open to breathe in the cold morning air. The yurt stank like an exotic strain of malignant fungus, and his grimy sweat felt as if it had hardened into scales.

  ‘Oh, they’re gone,’ he noted and yawned.

  The street outside was empty save for a few limping passers-by, coughing in the mist. Last night’s crowd of silent spectators had presumably dissipated sometime during the newcomers’ long sleep, so they were now alone to enjoy the privacy of their little laystall. The air smelt of mist, congealed fat in the frozen gutters and just a hint of burnt saucepan scrapings.

  ‘Man alive,’ he breathed, ‘what a place!’

  Just as he was about to go back indoors, he noticed a large tray had been left by the door. It had four bowls of what looked like grey bread with strips of dried skin, a large urn of cabbage water and a big meaty bone for the dog.

  ‘Breakfast,’ he announced, not bothering to wonder who had fetched it, and hauled the tray inside.

  It was only then that he noticed Methuselech was absent. That did not surprise him, since the mercenary had been fretting for the last twelve days about the importance of arriving here before Nibulus and their other companions. He had probably gone off to enquire from the locals as to their whereabouts. As far as Gapp was concerned, the only important matter right now was the food before him.

  It was lukewarm, insipid and formed a waxy layer on the roof of the mouth, but Gapp and the others gorged themselves enthusiastically. That done, they barred the door and went straight back to sleep.

  He did not know how long he slept like that, as motionless and cold as a mummified king of old in the stale, fetid stillness of his barrow. The only sounds that drifted through the shady vaults of his half-life were the weeping utterances of a melancholy wind outside and the occasional gentle clacking together of velvet-sheathed antlers somewhere closer at hand. It felt as if Gapp had been asleep for days when he was finally jolted almost out of his skin by a terrific commotion from Shlepp. By the time the boy’s wild thrashing hands had ceased their fruitless search for his spectacles, the snarling had quietened, and above it he could hear the sound of booted feet crunching upon the frozen crust of household waste outside. The footsteps came closer, then stopped just outside. Both Gapp and his dog stared at the door, not breathing. Then its flimsy collection of rotten planks shook beneath the weight of three kicks so violent that even the comatose Paranduzes now awoke.

  It was Methuselech, and for once he was actually smiling.

  No, not just smiling, Gapp realized, almost awestruck, he’s beaming!

  Methuselech was indeed in a somewhat more cheerful humour than was his wont. In addition, he was carrying a large bale of furs and, in spite of his considerable burden, seemed quite sprightly.

  ‘You look happy,’ Gapp ventured, trying to modulate the bewilderment in his voice.

  ‘They haven’t passed through yet!’ Methuselech announced with an uncharacteristic hint of excitement in his voice.

  ‘What, Nibulus and the rest?’

  ‘Exactly. I was speaking with some of the senior burghers of this delightful town before dawn, while you and your fellow sloths were still hibernating, and they’ve assured me that no one even remotely fitting our friends’ description has been seen in the vicinity. Isn’t that splendid?’

  ‘Wonderful,’ Gapp replied dutifully. ‘But how can you be sure?’

  ‘Oh, the Oghain keep a very tight ship in this town of theirs and, believe me, if any outsiders come anywhere near Wrythe, they do not go unnoticed. Here.’ He flung the bundle of furs down onto the drier part of the floor, and sat down. ‘Cold-weather kit for the days ahead. All paid for, as is our bed and board for the next week.’

  Gapp noticed that the Asyphe warrior’s other golden ear-chain had now gone too. He really is serious about this then, the boy reflected.

  ‘So, what have we got here?’ he said, rummaging through the new acquisitions.

  There were hefty thonged boots made of a thick oily hide that he had never seen before, and lined with a type of fur as white and soft as a snowflake – so soft that he could not even feel it with his fingertips. There were also mittens of a similar pelt; stiff-hair shirts with a fleecy lining; voluminous brown hoods with attached leather face masks; and the huge, shaggy pelts themselves could serve either as coat or bedroll. All felt and smelt of beasts that he could not guess at.

  ‘Sealskin boots, snow hare mitts, saiga antelope shirts, bearskin hoods and musk-ox coats,’ Methuselech informed him. ‘Just the stuff for a cold sea crossing.’

  Gapp ran his hands over the skins and could well believe that. ‘Seal, antelope, bear, ox,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Honestly, it’s all a big game to you, isn’t it?’

  Even the centaur-like Hwald and Finan had been provided for – at least, the upper, man-like half of them – and were eagerly going through the heap making little purring sounds of approval. They both had an eye for style as well as quality, and wasted no time in dressing each other up and striking poses for their own amusement.

  Then Gapp noticed among the pile of skins and pelts something rather out of place. He lifted it up to study it better in the grey light. It was a blue tabard with three sticks of rhubarb embroidered on the back.

  ‘This looks familiar,’ he said, half to himself. ‘Isn’t this the emblem of the Seers of Criccadan?’

  ‘Yes, I noticed that among all the other merchandise,’ Methuselech replied carefully, and fumbled in his robes for something. ‘And this,’ he went on, tossing a small metal object to Gapp. ‘A brooch pin – recognize the design?’

  Gapp studied the jewelled pendant, turning it over in his hand. ‘No,’ he admitted, ‘but it’s obviously from somewhere far to the south of Wyda-Aescaland.’

  ‘The Quiravian chapter of the Shining Circle of Cunnans,’ Xilvafloese informed him, referring to a very large cult of atheist practitioners of magic dedicated to the eradication of evil and superstition.

  ‘Never heard of them,’ Gapp sniffed and tossed it back to him.

  ‘Well, they exist and, unless this pendant was stolen and brought here by traders, they’ve probably been this way. Not only that but, while I was checking out this town, I noticed one of the wire-faces wearing a Pendonian sallet-helm.’

  There was a short silence while Gapp let this sink in.

  ‘Seers, Cunnans and Peladanes,’ Methuselech said. ‘Only one reason any of their sort would come here. They’re not traders – they’re here for the Maw.’

  Gapp thought about it then shrugged. ‘So are we. And don’t forget all those reports of other missions heading to Melhus over the last few years.’

  Methuselech lowered his voice. ‘Indeed. But I wonder how many of them actually got any further than Wrythe. Perhaps I’m jumping to conclusions, but it could be that whoever previously owned these items got murdered.’

  Gapp let out a little laugh, a rather queasy effort that lasted for all of half a second. He had been feeling noticeably better after the lukewarm food and his long sleep under cover for once; besides he could not help but appreciate this conversation with his companion that consisted of more than his questions being ignored, sidetracked or his being simply told to shut up. Yet now this rare conversation was taking on a distinctly disagreeable quality.

  ‘I suppose it is a possibility.’ He shifted uncomfortably. ‘Guild shirts and badges aren’t the sort of things their owners would let go of lightly.’

  ‘Quite so. Which is why we mustn’t allow the Oghain to suspect for a minute that we’re anything other than traders. They’re probably already a little suspicious: two men alone, without carts and with only two steeds.’

  ‘D’you think this lot’d really care about anyone going on to Melhus? Even if they even remember it still exists? Just look at them; they’re not exactly the outward-looking sort, are the
y? Why the heck are they like this, anyway? What could’ve happened to them to turn them all so . . .’ he sought for a simple word which might sum them up, ‘milky?’

  ‘Ah, but Melhus was always a place of darkness for the Oghain, and they’re not likely to forget what they suffered in ages past, no matter how long that place endures. Yes, I could tell you a thousand and one tales of the malicious sport the rawgrs from the Maw used to have with their forefathers. No wonder, really, that their hatred became so strong – strong enough to form an alliance to topple Drauglir, in the end. Who would have ever believed that of them?’

  ‘Them and the Peladanes,’ Gapp pointed out.

  ‘Ah yes, the shining warriors. They do have their uses after all, I suppose.’

  Gapp regarded his companion quizzically, not sure exactly what he meant by this.

  ‘Anyhow,’ Methuselech went on, ‘the island is still an evil place for them to this day, and the last thing they want is interfering foreigners stirring up new trouble there. Therefore, unless we can convince them we are genuine traders, there could be trouble for us. These purchases here are a start, but not nearly enough to completely allay their suspicions. Our friends might take weeks to arrive, and if we’re to wait for them here any length of time, we’re going to need to conduct a lot more business than just this lot. The only trouble is, I don’t have anything else to bargain with.’

  ‘Are you saying we’ll have to leave soon then?’ Gapp enquired in dismay. Wrythe might not be the most hospitable place in the world, but it did offer shelter, food and some small degree of civilization. The very last thing he wanted now was to go back into the wilds, especially so soon after getting here.

  ‘I haven’t decided yet,’ Methuselech replied. ‘The way I see it, we have two options: Plan A and Plan B.’

  ‘Flippineck!’ Gapp cried out all of a sudden, and flung the ox pelt he had been handling away from him, shuddering. ‘Are those things really supposed to have mites the size of crabs in them? That one nearly had my finger off!’

  Methuselech stared at him, as if wondering just why he was bothering to explain any of this to the boy. That old familiar reticence returned to his eyes, and he rose to his feet. ‘We can talk about that another time. I need to meet their chief some time today, so we’d better get cleaned up. Come on, I’ll show you the bathhouse.’

  Bathhouses were the last thing Gapp expected to find in Wrythe. But bathhouses there were, of a kind, and they turned out to be a luxury hitherto unimagined by the boy. Close to the centre of the town there was a huge karst tower riddled with caves and tunnels, and some of these contained natural hot springs that bubbled away constantly like soup and filled the air with the smell of bad eggs.

  At the sight of the large pool of green water in the cave Methuselech led them to, both Hwald and Finan hooted with fervour and plunged straight in. Shlepp wrinkled his nose and shied away, while Methuselech made his way unobtrusively to one of the cubicles situated at the far end of the cave.

  There were no locals present, so Gapp peeled off the oily layers of his clothing and gingerly lowered himself into the water.

  ‘Oh – my – fanny!’ he cried as the hot water surged up his body, and he grimaced in ecstasy as the pain, weariness and grime of the last two weeks were washed away. Steam wafted up his nose and filled his head with the powerful dizzying aroma of sulphur. Limbs that had stiffened with an aching chill now began to relax, expand, almost unfold. Bubbling jets of magma-heated water pummelled away the rasping layer of chitinous filth from his skin and, as the warmth began to reawaken his blood and send it coursing throughout his body, extremities long forgotten now glowed a tingling pink.

  Gapp allowed himself to drift off into a blissful private world of giddying rapture. The deep laughter of the joyful Paranduzes echoed loudly around the cave, but the boy heeded it not, heard it only as a dream or the memory of a faraway land. Time passed for him in a strange way. Hours became days, weeks became minutes, and years wavered undecidedly between seconds and decades. Time went forward then backwards and, after a spell in which it appeared to move sideways but at a slight diagonal incline, stopped. The whooping and splashing of the Paranduzes turned into sprays of peach blossom that exploded in the air, cascaded through the purple darkness and fluttered away on wings made of musical notes.

  The boy from Wyda-Aescaland danced after them, and found himself skimming over treetops of brightest vermilion. He smiled at the rainbow birds that swooped through ropes dangling from clouds, and filled his lungs with the heady fragrance of burnt cinnabar. Down he went, through aromatic smoke trails that undulated from the tallest tree of all, and he was in Cyne-Tregva once more. There was Englarielle, Radkin, Ted and the Vetters, the Cervulice and the Paranduzes. No words did they use, for none were needed; they simply smiled and welcomed him into their firelit dance. Never before had Gapp felt such an abundance of joy and love; with tears of happiness he was borne away in the warmth of their embrace . . .

  Then the laughter and the music died away and, in the hollow silence that followed, Gapp awoke.

  ‘Oh. How long have I . . .?’

  He looked about. Shlepp lay on the poolside eyeing him with head cocked, while Hwald and Finan had quietened down and were now washing each other’s bodies, languidly but thoroughly.

  Gapp stared at them. I wonder how they feel about all this? he thought. They never complain, never offer any opinion, don’t really talk. Don’t they wonder what it is we’re doing, exactly?

  It did seem odd to the boy that such creatures could allow themselves to be taken so far from their home, and by such alien beings as he and Xilvafloese. Again that sense of warmth and love came back to him, and he felt empty and troubled.

  Surely they must be dying to be with their own sort again?

  Gapp slipped out of the pool and tried on his new raiment. After so long wearing clothes that felt and smelt like discarded kipper skin, these thick pelts embraced his body like a bear. He stopped for a moment to admire himself in this outlandish gear (Flip, what would the family think if they could see me now?) then strode over to Methuselech’s cubicle.

  He was about to knock on the door but drew back in alarm. There was a narrow sluice along the floor which issued from the cubicle, and coursing along it was the foulest-looking bath water Gapp had ever seen. Not simply dirty, this stuff ran a brownish-burgundy colour with little white flecks floating on the greasy surface, and smelt of rancid myrrh. From within could just be heard the stifled grunts of the desert man.

  Clarty bugger, Gapp thought to himself. I bet he only came in here to mask his evil pong.

  ‘Methuselech?’ he called out and tapped gently on the door.

  The grunting stopped and, after a pause, Methuselech answered, ‘What is it, Greyboots?’

  ‘Any chance of telling me about Plans A and B?’

  A few moments later Methuselech emerged wearing his new apparel. He now looked every inch the barbarian Oghain-Yddiaw warrior of legend, despite his swarthy complexion.

  ‘We’ve got what we want,’ Gapp explained hurriedly, ‘food and clothes . . . So I was just wondering what we’re going to do now: wait for Wintus or go and meet up with Englarielle and his Vetters? They might have reached the Last Shore already; for all we know they might be camped on the strand waiting for us right now.’

  Methuselech seemed to be in some pain and did not answer. He shuffled over to the cave mouth and sat down, breathing in heavily the wafts of steam that curled up into the cold air outside.

  ‘What’s the matter, boy?’ he said in a strange laboured slur. ‘Asking questions all the time . . . poking your nose in . . .’ He paused for a moment, eyes closed tightly, and inhaled deeply. Then he looked sideways at his companion and jabbed his finger into Gapp’s temple. ‘That brain of yours woken up at long last, eh?’

  Gapp swatted the intrusive finger away irritably. ‘I’m just worried about who we’re supposed to meet up with. Is it Nibulus or Englarielle? Haven’t you talked
to Hwald and Finan about that?’

  Methuselech slumped back against the rock wall and sighed deeply. For once Gapp was close enough for his foggy vision to see the man’s eyes clearly. They looked, he fancied, much like those of a dead fish, but behind them he thought he could detect a certain hesitancy, or maybe uncertainty.

  A moment later Methuselech appeared to come to a decision.

  ‘About Finwald . . .’ he began.

  ‘What about Finwald?’ the boy probed attentively.

  ‘Two years ago,’ Methuselech went on.

  ‘At the forest giant’s, yes?’

  ‘You didn’t really think he was carrying a dead snake about with him, did you?’

  ‘Of course not!’ Gapp snorted, louder than was strictly necessary, then averted his gaze.

  Methuselech’s eyes, all-seeing, all-knowing, rose to the ceiling. Gapp could see the oily smears of superciliousness floating upon their watery surface without even having to look at him. He did not need this. The only reason he was sitting this close to Fish-Man and suffering his pestilential presence was because he wanted answers. He decided now that if all he was going to get was the standard dose of disregard and slight, then he was going to get up immediately and walk out of here without so much as a word or a backward glance.

  ‘So?’ he demanded.

  ‘So,’ Methuselech explained, ‘he was carrying a weapon. And that’s what this whole misadventure is about. Finwald, our affable and modest young Lightbearer, was walking about in Fron-Wudu – alone – with possibly the most powerful weapon in the world at this moment. With a single stroke it could change the course of history.’

  ‘History?’ the boy gasped. ‘You mean he intends to try and change the past?’

  ‘Gods’ Pollux!’ Methuselech swore in amazement. ‘Obviously I was mistaken about your brain waking up.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know, do I,’ Gapp protested, using six more words than he had resolved to, and completely forgetting to flounce out of the cave.

  ‘It’s probably enough for you to merely know that Finwald’s precious “item” is of great importance. Yes, that’ll do – just try to remember that. And it is precisely because of this importance that I cannot reveal any more to you. There are certain people – and I’m not talking about just humans here – who would be very interested to discover Finwald’s little secret, and should these people ever find you, me or anyone else who knows anything about the aforementioned “dead snake”, then we will all wish we’d never been born. I wish to protect you, Master Radnar, and at the moment ignorance is the greatest protection I can offer you. Should your mission, and your knowledge of Finwald, ever become clear to these people I speak of, then the less you know, the better.’