A Fire in the North

by David Bilsborough

  As dawn approached cold and drear ahead of them, still they toiled onward, for hour after hellish hour. The aim had been to get away from Wrythe in whichever direction offered the easiest passage through the dense forest. Only on the insistence of Methuselech had they steered north-east, towards the coast, finally emerging from the forest onto dismal bare rocky cliffs, black stony beaches and stinking sea wrack. But they were far from safe yet. To a barren largely unknown land they had come, with an uncertain destination and an even vaguer purpose. They were on their last legs and starving.

  It was an opportune encounter with Uldachtna nomads that saved them. Towards the evening of the second day they came across a small group of hunters who were fortunately human and seemed neither hostile nor too surprised at seeing Hwald and Finan. Best of all, they turned out to be Torca.

  The Uldachtna tribe of the Torca race migrated up through the northern reaches of the forests of Fron-Wudu every autumn as far as the Seter Heights. Gapp recalled Wodeman making mention of this people. In their stories they remembered Drauglir, the shaman had claimed, and referred to Him as Kelet, the Devourer of Whales.

  This particular family had made a short detour north to the coast in order to forage for shellfish. They had been in the spot for several days already, having erected their bowl-shaped, antler-crowned yurts upon the scrubby grassland lying between the strand and the edge of the forest.

  A hospitable people renowned for their generosity, they had welcomed even Hwald and Finan into their camp without hesitation. There the Torca provided them all with the best they could offer in safety, warmth and comfort for the night. It was certainly the safest they had felt since leaving Cyne-Tregva, though the warmth and comfort were relative. As guests of honour Methuselech and Gapp (with his hound) shared a yurt with the patriarch and his several wives, while the Paranduzes took up their customary ever-watchful position outside. The shelter was cramped and lightless save for a single candle that succeeded only in illuminating the thick brown smog immediately surrounding it, and a seal-oil lamp with translucent fishskin for glass. The earth floor had already become a packed-down tar of walrus oil, elk hair and crushed mollusc shell. The pervading fug stank of old sweat, horsehair blankets, plaited wolfskin ropes, cold mutton grease and a choking smoke that never dissipated. Even when Wife Number One opened the smoke hole with a stick, the wind merely drove it back into their eyes and lungs. Furthermore, as soon as the sun went down, they were plagued by a merciless swarm of biting midges.

  But in compensation the Torca also provided them with a veritable banquet of mutton, beans and wild garlic washed down with fermented goats’ milk.

  There was something equally comforting they provided, honest simple company. This last did at least as much to revitalize Gapp as the food and warmth. How long it felt since he had enjoyed the company of normal people, people of his own kind, humans. For the Oghain he considered something less than sub-human, and Methuselech was not much better nowadays.

  Only now did Gapp’s thoughts turn once again to their leader. That there was something dreadfully amiss with him went without saying; the man was falling apart more obviously as each day passed. For Gapp the flight had been bad enough, but at least he still possessed hands to grip his steed’s antlers; Methuselech, however, had managed only by enmeshing his handless stumps in Hwald’s rearward tines. It was a pitiful sight to behold.

  But, now that he came to think about it, what was really preoccupying the boy this night was Xilva’s deepening reticence. He had never been forthcoming about his plans, but now he seemed to have retracted even further. What, before Wrythe, had appeared as uncivil aloofness now seemed more like complete mental withdrawal.

  As far as both body and mind were concerned, Methuselech Xilvafloese was apparently drawing to some sort of close.

  In the course of that same night the Torca provided some information that lit the first flame of real hope in the hearts of their guests for a very long time. For, two days earlier, they had seen a large encampment of strange creaures further along the coast – not more than a day’s travel away.

  Two types of creature there were, the patriarch informed them, but whether man or beast he could not tell, for even at a distance he could see they were like nothing he had ever encountered before in his life. The smaller ones, it seemed, were about Gap’s size and build, and were at least partly clothed, but were otherwise covered head to foot in curly brown hair and in addition possessed weasel-like faces and long tails. The larger ones, though, reminded the Torca a little of Hwald and Finan here, though they went on just two legs – like a deer’s hind pair – and had a long single horn instead of antlers. And though they had tails like those of the Paranduzes, theirs lacked the cluster of spikes at the end.

  To the Uldachtna wanderers, they might as well have been devils straight from Melhus Island.

  Gapp and Methuselech looked at each other through the lambent glow and sighed with relief. Methuselech demanded to know where exactly these creatures had been seen, and from the reply he received it seemed they were camped pretty much where he had instructed Englarielle to lead his Vetter army.

  For Gapp this news produced a surge of joy. In spite of the dull sense of fear that still haunted him, he felt light-heartedly excited at the thought of being reunited with Englarielle and the others after all he had been through. Not even the midges and smoke could dampen his relief. For Methuselech though, things were entirely different. He suffered the excited prattling of his companion with the glazed and suffering look of a parent. He continually declined the Torca’s offer of food with unaccustomed politeness and as much firmness as he dared, and placed himself firmly in the midst of the reeking smoke, the better to mask the growing stench of his decay.

  For him it was to be a very long night. Despite the boy’s optimistic wittering, Methuselech realized they were far from safe. He knew Scathur too well and within days, possibly hours, this whole area would be teeming with Oghain, all out for his blood (such as it was). And already he felt so weak. If Scathur arrived during the night, he was done for. But if they did make it through to the morning he should, by then, be ‘refuelled’. And if he could wrap his arm stumps around Hwald’s antlers for a few hours more and just sit tight, they would arrive at the Black Shore, and the worst of the danger would be behind him.

  This body may be a pathetic sack of mushroom fodder with only a few days left in it, but if I can haul it as far as the Black Shore, then at last I can use my real powers . . .

  His body was increasingly rebelling against the spirit that dwelt within it, rejecting it and trying to destroy it in any way it could. But they were so close now, and he still had Radnar there as a little self-propelled bag of fresh blood.

  There was also the chance of reinforcements close at hand. Yet, even without the Vetters, he might still make it. Make it back home.

  If only they made it through the night.

  The rose glow of the sun’s first rays came slanting over the eastern horizon, and cast long xiphoid shadows behind the yurts. It was a bitterly cold morning, still quiet and reluctant to get going. Even the sea was sluggish as it listlessly rinsed the stony beach.

  Gapp awoke with a fit of coughing, and flung the uncured saiga-pelt covers from his itching body and crawled outside between the two walrus tusks that framed the felt door-flaps of the yurt. He stretched his cramped body and breathed great gulps of the blessedly clean air deep into his smoke-tarred lungs. Then he stood pondering silently in the dawn chill.

  For once he felt surprisingly relaxed and rested. Not drained or dizzy, as had been usual recently, but properly refreshed in the way one should feel after a good night’s sleep. That food had been wonderful, and despite the primitive conditions in the yurt he had slept deeply. No dreams of bats or leeches sucking his lifeblood. Yes, he was feeling decidedly ready for the off. Even Methuselech looked a little more human, that is to say, slightly less of a cadaver. The only one in the camp, in fact, who seemed drained and off-
colour was the plumpest of the patriarch’s wives, the one who had slept closest to Methuselech.

  After a hurried breakfast they effusively thanked their hosts and bade them farewell, then set out again along the coast. They were eager to put more distance between them and the threat from the west, and the icy sea breeze served to add zest to their journey.

  In the early afternoon they spotted several thin columns of smoke rising into the air, and two hours later were finally reunited with the Vetters. A strangled hooting went up from the Paranduzes, and in a mad clatter of flying pebbles and sprays of sand they galloped at full speed down towards the encampment laid out on the strand.

  Vetter and Cervulus alike came charging towards Methuselech and his group, the Vetters sprinting nimbly along, their ratlike tails pointing straight up in the air, and their much larger companions bobbing along with that strange gait of theirs, shaking the ground under their powerful three-toed hooves. Even the Vetter sentries perching atop the sea stacks around the area came gliding towards them on their arm membranes.

  ‘Thank you!’ Gapp beamed as he stared into Englarielle’s big apple-green eyes and clasped his clawed little hand in his own. ‘Only you could have done it!’

  The Vetters didn’t have a clue what he was saying but the words came bubbling straight from his heart, and the feeling behind them could not be misunderstood.

  All of them were there: the Cynen Englarielle, the Vetter Radkin, who had originally found Gapp, Ted the blacksmith, the captains and about two score others, with one Cervulus mount for each Vetter. All one hundred of them crowded around the newcomers and for a time it felt as if they were on holiday; all they wished to do now was sing, dance, feast and catch up on news.

  The bad news that Methuselech no longer had any hands would have to wait. He was still considered by the Vetters a superior being, but that might not last long once they discovered his handicap, for impairment of any kind in Vetter society was likely to produce a fast-track ticket to the slab. He therefore kept his stumps firmly concealed within his Oghain robe.

  As far as the good folk of Cyne-Tregva were concerned, however happy they were to see the arrivals, they were not in the least bit surprised. Having been promised a rendezvous here, they had accepted that without any doubt. Now that they were all safely together again, that seemed to be that: mission accomplished. Their laughter and music rang out, welcoming fires were built higher, sending even denser plumes of smoke up into the heavens, and the storytelling began.

  Methuselech was tired. He could see any attempts to drag them on eastward now would simply fall upon deaf ears. The Vetters wanted to celebrate, and that was just what they would do. He was forced into translating the stories of what had happened for all to hear, though he did so with disappointing brevity. Continually looking over his shoulder towards the forest, he could not concentrate properly.

  Well, they had at least brought some decent weaponry with them, he was relieved to see, and not simply their workaday hunting equipment. It seemed they would be well prepared should they encounter any resistance within the Maw. Each of them had one of those Jordiske-scapula machetes plus several quivers of quartz-tipped throwing darts each the size of an arrow. And the Cervulice were armed even more formidably, each having a pair of long sabres heavier at one end and made from a flexible wood coated with a specially treated amber that both toughened them and rendered them as sharp as glass. Many were also kitted out with crude leather tabards hung with small plates of metal.

  Nevertheless, this was the Last Shore; he knew it well and it did not welcome happiness. They were hopelessly exposed here, yet it would take a lot to instil any sense of urgency in the Vetters while they remained in this euphoric mood. Methuselech could feel the heat of Scathur’s anger on the nape of his neck, increasing with every minute they wasted here.

  ‘Radnar,’ he hissed, ‘we’ve got to get them away from here right now. It’s not safe.’

  The atmosphere of celebration had temporarily wiped away Gapp’s fear of Wrythe, but the shadow of that place now returned to him on hearing Methuselech’s words.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he nodded, ‘but where do we go?’

  Methuselech held his eye and murmured, ‘To Melhus.’

  ‘What, today?’

  ‘Yes, today! Don’t you understand? He is not far behind us.’

  Englarielle and the nearest Vetters quietened down, unsure what their friends’ conversation might mean.

  Gapp lowered his head. ‘I understand fully,’ he responded. ‘But we still haven’t got a boat.’

  ‘Leave the details to me,’ Methuselech said and moved away through the carousing throng. ‘I know a way, but you must help me get these— Oh my life, they’ve found us already!’

  All turned to follow his widening gaze. There on a ridge overlooking the beach were five malign black silhouettes. They did not move but just stood watching the now silent company. Two more came up from behind to join the line, one at either end, then two more.

  ‘No more talk,’ Methuselech urged. ‘We’re off – now!’

  There was a hurried scramble for weapons as growling Vetters and gabbling Cervulice cut short their celebrations to face the new threat. Methuselech meanwhile clambered up onto Hwald, who snorted and began moaning in wide-eyed dread. Gapp similarly wasted no time in vaulting onto Finan. All four, plus a snarling slavering Shlepp, were about to start off when Englarielle, with his ridiculous antique helm rammed down on his head, leapt in front of the two Paranduzes and halted them.

  ‘Uaiah nauiraeavi waunou!’ he cried shrilly, clearly confused as to why nine – now thirteen; they were still coming – strangers were such a threat to over a hundred. The Cervulice, too, appeared more than ready for a fight, each twirling his twin swords in the air and making stabbing motions with the black sabre-like horn on his forehead.

  But still they came: sixteen of them now. Hwald bellowed something to Englarielle, and whatever this was it finally seemed to do the trick. The four who had suffered so badly at Wrythe had no idea how many wire-faces there might be, but the very air now stank of Scathur. They could sense his presence all around – in the dark clouds, the leaden sea, the whispering wind; they could almost see his evil darkening the air, blowing from the west in a pall. They were not going to wait to find out how many others there were, even if it meant deserting their Vetter friends.

  Straight onto the backs of their mounts the Vetters sprang, seating themselves each on that hefty protruding Cervulus rump while firmly grasping a good handful of leonine mane. Then, charging along as though the very flames of hell licked at their heels, the whole company fled, including the confused and disappointed Cynen and his captains. The Cervulice even went down on all fours, using their great arms as extra pairs of legs for added speed. And it was a long time before any of them looked back.

  As they rode, Methuselech cried out for them to keep their eyes peeled for any seaweed deposited by the high tide. Gapp looked at him in puzzlement, wondering if he had finally tipped over the edge of madness. But he saw in the man’s eyes no insanity, just unbelievable desperation as he bounced about atop the thundering Parandus with his concealed forearms wrapped about its antlers.

  He’s holding that body of his together by will alone, Gapp marvelled, or perhaps something else is?

  When they finally halted, it was twilight. Looking around at the place Methuselech had brought them to, not one of them uttered a sound; it definitely did not feel good to them.

  A thick grey fog had rolled in from the sea, gradually eating up the stars and blotting out the moon. It glided around them, beading clothes, skin and fur with a loathsome dew, invading every crevice with clammy fingers; the breath from the serpent at the world’s ending infecting them, petrifying them, making them a part of its world. Sly waves lapped slickly against oily rocks before slithering back into the unknown. Sonorous calls could be heard somewhere out at sea, how far off they could not guess.

  The Vetters’ pointed ear-t
ips trembled. It was now unnervingly quiet. They had foolishly made too much noise with their arrival and knew now that this strange land was aware of them, was listening to them.

  Before two days ago Gapp Radnar had never actually seen the sea. He had heard about it all his life, of course, so much so that his first sight of it was something of a let-down. Here it was sluggish and had an unpleasant look about it, nothing at all like the stirring promises of the sagas. But for Englarielle’s folk, never even having heard about it before, it might as well have been another dimension, too big for comprehension. And what back there had at first sight filled them with awe, here seemed alien and terrible. For the ocean had taken on a decidedly darker aspect to that it wore just a few miles west. In fact, it now scared them witless. They felt as if they had arrived at the very edge of the world, and were gazing out at the blackness of the void beyond, wherein dwelt the serpents of the Poison Sea.

  He did not know what lent the sea this foreboding air, but something told Gapp that they had at last arrived at Xilva’s ‘special place’.

  The fog swirled all around them now. In wreaths and wispy tatters it rolled towards them out of the sea, muffling what little sound they made. It engulfed them wholly and cut them off from their own world. Gapp was reminded of the stories of U’throst, an underwater huldre-land that rose out of the sea from time to time. Many accounts told of ordinary men walking the well-trodden paths of their coastal homes, only to find themselves passing through fog and emerging into that strange land. He had never enjoyed listening to those stories.

  ‘Xilva?’ he called out, unsure where his companion was.

  His question fell dead.

  ‘Xilva!’ he hissed. ‘Where are we?’

  A voice sounded from somewhere nearby, or possibly from inside his head: ‘The Black Shore,’ it murmured.