A Fire in the North

by David Bilsborough

  But now, after the ordeal of Melhus, that week-long test of endurance, that torture of body and mind, something had changed within them, between them. None could have made it across this terrible land on his own; it had been a union – a harmony of six souls – that had got them across. Six disparate entities had entered the ice field of Melhus; a single team had left it.

  This Nibulus who addressed them now, he was no longer a mere Peladane, all polished armour and arrogance, a jumped-up loudmouth who claimed leadership by right of his inherited status. He was simply a man, an ordinary bloke like they. Gone was the crass, jovial adventurer they had rode out with from Nordwas. Gone too was the cynical businessman who had revealed his true purpose to them back in the Giant Mountains. Here was a man they could really follow.

  And this pronouncement was not the standard glib oration of the Thegne, a string of mellifluous blandishments to rouse the troops before sending them off to do battle; it was simple honest truth, man to man. Though he was not aware of it, Nibulus Wintus had thrown off his ‘magnificent Tengriite’ and revealed the real man beneath.

  ‘Right,’ he said firmly, ‘let’s go and cut us some Rawgr fillet.’

  Finally, one by one, the company from Nordwas entered the Maw.

  Beneath the lead-grey sky heavy with the smell of stormclouds nothing moved. A dead calm had settled upon the sea, and there was not the slightest breath of wind. But at the same moment that Nibulus entered the Maw, out on the water many miles behind them something was approaching. First to glide into view was a sail, a single triangle of gold cloth bearing the effigy of a coiled red dragon. It hung limply from its mast, for there was no wind to fill it. Then, a hull could be seen, narrow, sleek, its high dragon-prow slicing through the black water as if propelled by expert hands. Silently, smoothly, purposefully it came, dividing the waves in an effortless glissade. With a patience as calm as the sea, it did not have to hasten, for like death itself it knew it would bag its prey sooner or later.

  As finally the vessel came into full view, it became apparent that no oarsmen were at work. With a power that was not of this world it advanced over the Lobster’s Heath. Upon its deck an army of wire-faces stood unmoving. Feet planted firmly apart, garrottes held stretched taut before them in the usual manner, bloodied aprons barely fluttering, they stared ahead of them and did not utter a word. Above them, swinging from yard, forestay, topmast shrouds and ratlines, and giggling feverishly, the Children of the Keep played, the only things moving on the ship.

  And in the middle of all this, his back to the mast, as silent and unmoving as the wire-faces, sat Scathur himself. Gone was the mouldering burgundy robe of his days in the Keep. He now wore a voluminous fur of pale cream adorned with black flecks that could have been either ermine or snow lion. Like a barbarian king upon his throne he appeared, one elbow resting on his knee, the hand cupping his chin, while in the other hand he grasped a twelve-foot-long bardische. This greatest of all axes was forged from adamantite, its two blades curving out like the horns of a devil.

  Not even the barest shade of expression flickered across his stony visage, save perhaps for the unflinching purpose in his eyes. Scathur had already covered most of the distance between Wrythe and Melhus, and his eyes never left the point where he knew Vaagenfjord Maw opened into the sea.

  Like death itself, Scathur was inescapable, and he was coming for them.

  Finally – after all these years – coming home.

  Brains screamed in blind panic; lungs burnt in torment; bodies contorted and limbs thrashed at the freezing water that enveloped them. No thoughts were in their minds save reaching air. The survival instinct had taken possession and propelled them ever upward.

  Upward. What a joke. Jagt had abandoned them deep beneath the sea, below even the seabed, and within seconds they would fill their lungs with freezing water, flail about in agonized frenzy, then die. But even knowing all this, still instinct drove them up to a surface that was not there.

  But then, without warning and beyond expectation, they did reach the surface. One after another, each head broke from the water with a howling gasp of agony, the air screaming into their lungs.

  Jagt had not betrayed them. How could he defy the binding spell that Methuselech had placed upon him? No, he had played his part: he had delivered them to Melhus, and it was only his last mean trick that had left them still underwater while mere yards from the surface – one final, spiteful stab to shake their composure and remind them of their place in the world.

  With water streaming down his forehead and into his eyes, Gapp choked with violent sobs as he tried to tread water. He had been ripped cruelly from the ecstatic beauty and warmth of U’throst into this pitch-dark world of freezing, spluttering mayhem, and his Ohgain robe was so sodden with water it might as well have been an anchor tied to him. Though at first relief had elevated him beyond reckoning, now he foundered in panic. A Vetter’s hand raked across his eyes as the poor creature tried to swim, and Gapp cried out in shock, swallowing a mouthful of brine in the process. He tried to see something, anything, which might suggest to him a direction in which to swim, but there was absolutely no light.

  Night-time? But there’re no stars. And we were only down there for . . .

  Now that he thought about it, he had no idea how long they had been under the sea. It had seemed like only a few moments, but there had still been a little light when he had stood upon the Black Shore. Just where the ruddy hek-fire had he ended up this time?

  ‘Radnarr,’ hissed a voice nearby, cutting through the gurgling cacophony all around, ‘follow me. Jus’ swim.’

  It was Methuselech’s voice and, having no other plan at that moment, the boy followed. Amid the gulping, gasping and swallowing, Gapp dragged himself through the spume of seething water. The U’throst-effect was now reversed, in that what seemed to last forever was actually all over in a very short span of time. Before long the whole company had hauled itself up onto a stone shelf. All who had entered the water also emerged from it. Whether man, dog, Parandus, Vetter or Cervulus, Jagt had delivered them to Melhus without a single casualty.

  ‘Where are we?’ Gapp stammered between the violent spasms that shook his body.

  He was lying upon the rough stone floor of a large echoing cavern in absolute darkness. Along with all the others he was still hacking up seawater, while trembling with a chill that had soaked into his very bones. He had wrung out his garments and sandwiched himself between Shlepp and Finan for warmth. The sound of coughing and intermittent moans could be heard all around, and the fearful bewilderment created a tangible menace that drew them to huddle together and stare sightlessly out at the impenetrable darkness. What was this place?

  For a long moment there was no answer. Gapp assumed Methuselech had not heard him. Then from somewhere indeterminate in the cavern came the voice: ‘Un’erneathth Mellhhuss,’ it soughed, ‘b’neathth the very hheart o’ Vaa’enfor’ Mhawr . . .’

  All froze, and Gapp spasmed as if he had been stroked by the damp robe of the reaper. The voice bubbled hoarsely into silence, and Shlepp growled savagely.

  It was Methuselech, for sure, but a Methuselech that had fallen even further into decay and ruin during their sea passage. His voice reverberated like a sigh from ancient tombs beneath the ground, insubstantial and wraith-like, as if his body were now a mere carapace of old skin, worm-eaten and hollow. Muted though it was, it nevertheless cut through every other sound and filled the cavern.

  ‘Methuselech?’

  ‘Resst,’ the voice breathed again. ‘Musst resst . . . there iss no dangerr dow’ hhere . . . Resstawhillle.’

  It spoke no more.

  No danger! Gapp screamed inside his head, his skin crawling as if he lay in a coffinful of maggots. No blooding danger? Have I ever been in more danger than now? Caught between miles of sea below and the “heart of Vaagenfjord Maw’ above, and here in this lightless hole with something that was once a man but is now . . . whatever it is. Have I ever b
een in more danger?

  He thought back to his time in the stabbur, to his capture by the Jordiske, his ordeal in the mines and, immediately before that, his imprisonment in Nym-Cadog’s witchly realm. Now, squeezed between the Rawgr and the deep black sea, Gapp’s breath came in short bursts, and his mind fought against the panic that threatened to engulf him.

  He held on to Shlepp, that wonderful canine friend who had rescued him on two occasions already from what had appeared to be inescapable death, held onto him tightly. And Shlepp, understanding the boy’s suffering, nuzzled him back.

  Gradually, Gapp regained some measure of self-control.

  Yes, I have been in worse situations, he thought, ’cause this time I’m among friends.’

  Gapp never did find out how long they had spent in Jagt’s domain. It had felt like mere minutes, but he had heard enough stories of huldre-home to assume better. For instance, there was a man in Nordwas who had disappeared years before Gapp had been born, only to reappear unexpectedly a full twenty years later. Much to the amazement of his relatives, he appeared not to have aged a day. When questioned about his disappearance, he scratched his head vaguely and told them that he had wandered into a land that was like a dream, a dream that he could hardly remember, but – so it seemed to him – one that had lasted only a matter of days.

  In truth, Gapp and his group had been submerged in Jagt’s world for well over a day. Meanwhile, a long way above them, Bolldhe and his companions were settling down to their last supper in the storehouse. And at this very moment, a long way above Bolldhe, a straggling line of thirteen travellers was approaching Ravenscairn.

  It was as black as the deepest trench of the ocean in here. The air was the same as had been five hundred years ago, had not stirred in all that time and still smelt faintly of Scathur’s breath. The entire place was without life, movement or sound.

  But into this deadness, had anyone or anything been there to perceive it, a faint sound did, upon this day, intrude. Indistinct at first, the sound gradually grew until it could be identified as footsteps, the muffled fall of many feet, softened further by the deep snow outside.

  Voices could now be heard from without, ill-defined, murmuring, rising and falling like the erratic gusts of a far-off wind, but deadened by the thickness of the stone. A long silence ensued. It was the silence of contemplation, expectancy. Searching.

  Then came the first thud, a blow that was dull but heavy enough to cause the first reverberation of air inside here since the Rawgr’s captain had last departed from this place. Profound, resonant. Ringing.

  The silence returned. Soon it was broken by a scratching, as of metal upon stone. This went on for quite some time, a patient sound but at the same time insistent, purposeful. Probing.

  Then came the rhythmic patter of many feet rapidly approaching as one and immediately a second thud. This one was more determined and succeeded in dislodging a scatter of grains of stone from the cracks between door and jamb. The footsteps retreated and, seconds later, charged again. This third impact was stronger still, and was accompanied by an ox-like grunt so deep it could only be felt, not heard.

  Moments later, a third charge, and with it the determined cry of many voices. Finally, with a terrific blow that sent a deep quaking throughout the stone walls of the chamber, the door crashed open and in came the helmeted head of Klijjver the herd giant. For five hundred years this room had been sealed up as tight as a coffin, and at last the stuffy sulphurous air was blasted away as an icy wind, the tree-trunk-like bulk of Klijjver and the eight chargers who carried him horizontally burst into the secret place.

  Down a steep flight of steps that they had not expected, but lay directly inside the door, the raiders tumbled, yelling. Just as Gapp, Methuselech and the Vetters had broken into the Maw in a confusion of pain and gasps, so too did the thieves of Tyvenborg. Only they entered from the opposite direction. Cursing and yelping as they went, when at last they came to a stop the thieves lay in a tangled pile of flapping limbs at the bottom of the stairs. Some moaned in pain, others were silent and did not move. The remainder bawled and gesticulated in anger and fear. For none of them had any idea exactly where they were or what lurked with them in the darkness.

  ‘What’s down there?’ came a thin broken voice from the top of the stairs. Though fierce winds now howled through the doorway from the night outside, those of the thieves too small to bear the battering-giant still did not dare enter. Brecca’s anxious little prune-face peered fearfully from the cover of his frost-stiffened hood, his gaze trying to pierce the darkness. It was he who had loosened the door in the first instance and who called out now.

  ‘We are, you stunted little shite,’ roared Cuthwulf from the top of the pile. ‘Get that light on us quickly.’

  As the resourceful Stone Hauger Brecca fumbled with the makeshift lantern he had fashioned out of spare parts a week ago, Cuthwulf lurched to his feet, felt around for the steps and then pounded back up to the open door.

  ‘Give that here, you twat!’ he cursed, and snatched the lantern from Brecca’s hands. The Hauger flinched away and stood obediently off to one side.

  In all honesty Cuthwulf was not annoyed with the Hauger; the thieves’ crafty little locksmith had, after months of seeming nothing more than a burden, finally proved his worth. He had succeeded both in finding the secret door and also unlocking it. At long last he was earning some of the respect he deserved.

  But Cuthwulf, youngest of their leader’s brothers and perhaps not the most stable of men, felt naked without his voulge. Like the other ram-raiders he had left his weapon outside and was rather shaken, to say the least. He also had little patience with the Hauger. And besides, over the long months the thieves had been together they had got used to victimizing the little guy, and habits do not die easily. He turned his back on Brecca and, lantern held out before him, descended once again into the pit, albeit with considerably less celerity than before.

  ‘And shut that pissing door!’ he yelled back savagely.

  The little folk, Brecca, Flekki, Khurghan and Grini, wasted no time picking up their comrades’ discarded weaponry, equipment and supplies, before bustling in out of the freezing cold. Cuthwulf shone the lantern around, revealing that they were now in a large room – a cave really – excavated from the rock. High up in one corner was the door they had entered through, closed firmly now against the elements outside. The faces of the four little folk, who had now hauled all the weapons and baggage in, glowed yellow and sickly in the lantern’s beam as they stared anxiously back down at Cuthwulf while they waited silently by the door.

  Brother number two, Cuthwulf, now focused the lantern down. From the door itself a rock-hewn flight of steps descended steeply across one wall. A single archway exited the room below, but – to everyone’s immense relief – there was no one (or no thing) else in there with them.

  Howling wind and desperate cold now shut out firmly behind the stone entrance door, they finally breathed a sigh of relief and began to take stock of their new situation. Cuthwulf’s brothers – the leader Eorcenwold and his lieutenant Oswiu Garoticca – still lay prostrate upon the floor, unmoving, eyes closed but at least still visibly breathing. They had been at the head of the charge through the entrance, so they and Klijjver had finished up at the bottom of the pile. Klijjver, as hulking and solid a Tusse as could be found throughout the north, looked fine and just sat there in the corner with a rather blank expression.

  And then there were the others – Hlessi the acid-haired Grell, Cerddu-Sungnir the multi-weaponed Half-Grell, Dolen the alabaster-faced Dhracus, and the two humans Aelldryc and Raedgifu. Though groaning loudly and clutching their battered bodies, they were only superficially hurt.

  They had made it. Made it to the cat’s-tooth pinnacle of Ravenscairn. Made it to Vaagenfjord Maw.

  Though it was bitterly cold in there, after the last twelve days they had endured it felt almost like an oven. Finally out of the blasting wind, their weather-ravaged faces gl
owed, joyfully remembering warmth, and their fingers tingled painfully as the blood pumped back into them.

  It had been an ordeal such as none of them had ever envisioned. After emerging from that dreadful tunnel in the Giant Mountains, with its lych-candles and ghostly voices, they had hastened on through the early hours of the night, trying to put as much distance between themselves and that nightmare place as possible. For two days they had wandered through those mountains, almost dying of cold. Most of their arctic gear and supplies had been abandoned in Eotunlandt – now presumably flattened by some giant’s foot – so the Tyvenborgers were none too well prepared for their journey. It had only been Eorcenwold’s determined leadership that had held them all together.

  But on the third day Khurghan the Polg, most excellent of that nomadic race’s hunters, had spotted and brought down a great monoceros with one arrow-like cast of his assegai spear, and they had devoured it like a pack of ravenous wolves. The healer Flekki, the other Hauger in the party, had rendered its rump fat into a viscous jelly that would adhere to the skin all day, providing a salve for their badly chapped hands and faces. From this point the maps they had brought with them from the Thieves’ Mountain began to make more sense, and with the guidance of Cuthwulf – the only one of them who had ever travelled in arctic places – they had three days later managed to reach the sea.

  They had ended up not at the ice bridge used by Bolldhe a week earlier but rather at a small cove to the east of it. Luck had again come their way then, for they happened upon a small party of Torca whalers from the Odnuig Estuary. These small rather subdued men in their tiny boat had been most accommodating, eventually – mainly due to the persuasive methods of Brother Oswiu Garoticca, cleric-assassin of Cardinal Saloth Alchwych – and they had charmingly agreed to hand over all their pelts and supplies. Some of them were so keen to see the Tyvenborgers on their way that they had even donated their few personal valuables to the cause. Such nice folk.