‘Do we even know the poor child’s name?’ asked Appa.
‘Weeks or months,’ Finwald replied. ‘She doesn’t seem to know how long it’s been since her arrival, but she came with a whole crowd: her brother, her friends, her lover the Grell, and a fair number of pretty tough-sounding swords for hire too. So I wouldn’t laugh too hard yet, lads. Oh, and her name’s Yen.’
Y-E-N. The letters inscribed upon the falchion they had found. Only the way Finwald pronounced it, it sounded more like Ian.
‘Ian?’ Nibulus repeated. ‘That’s a name in her country?’
‘She was attacked by something,’ Finwald continued, ‘but she won’t say what. The mercenaries were either slaughtered or fled, and her Grell lover-boy legged it without so much as a backward glance. Little brother was eaten, devoured from the face down: nice clothes, hairbrush, nail file and all. Apparently he’d won nearly every tourney award going – had all the badges sewn onto his tabard. Pity he couldn’t fight in a real situation.’
‘What about the ship?’ Bolldhe asked, remembering the half-sunk wreck that he and Nibulus had explored – and its grisly contents.
‘Hers, I think,’ Finwald supposed. ‘She won’t talk about it, though.’ And here he gave both Bolldhe and Nibulus a hard stare. ‘It scares her to death.’
Probably saw what we saw, Bolldhe guessed. Maybe that was her lover.
‘Lucky for us she stayed away from it,’ Finwald went on.
‘Otherwise there’d have been no food for us. She’s been living on fish heads, lichen and polar spiderlings.’
‘So what do we do now?’ Wodeman demanded. ‘We can’t just leave her here.’
‘Absolutely,’ Bolldhe agreed. ‘I’m not having her creeping around, jumping out on us like that. ’
‘I’ll take her, then,’ Wodeman volunteered, ‘back to our storehouse. She can stay there till we get back. Wait for me here; I shouldn’t be too long.’
‘You’ll be all right on your own?’ Nibulus asked, more than a little surprised.
‘He’ll have to be,’ Paulus grumbled. ‘I’m not going all the way back just for her sake.’
‘And I’d rather not tackle those stairs again unless I really have to,’ Appa added apologetically.
‘Come on then, you,’ said Wodeman, pulling the confused woman after him. ‘I’ll see you in a bit.’
As a hunting cat flees from a quarry that turns suddenly to face it, so Wodeman staggered away from the Maw. Like the sobbing woman he dragged behind him, he was sick with fear, scantly more than a frightened animal himself. Born of the forest, like all forest creatures he had often known terror. There had been times in his life when he had stumbled through woodlands lamentable and drear, when swamp mist rose chill and damp to befoul the night air, and out of darkness came voices of things of which even he had no ken.
Out of the gateway he reeled, dizzy with the light, and gulped in the cleaner, salty air of the real world. Above him the cliffs swam vertiginously, and the gargoyles seemed to cackle at his plight. But he did not pause long: propelling the woman roughly before him, together they reached the relative haven of the hut on the dock.
He heaved the door open, thrust his charge inside and quickly followed her. It was dark in there and now smelt not dissimilar to an elephant house. From the corner came a whinnying and stamping of hooves from Zhang, and a fresh gust of warm fart to add to the already mulchy fug. Wodeman immediately set his torch in a bracket in the wall, lit another two and rolled the heaviest provisions barrel against the door. Only when that was done did he finally collapse to his knees and pause to catch his breath.
‘Four dreams!’ he choked acrimoniously. ‘Four stupid dreams! All this way, all the pain and . . . and soul death, and that’s all I get to give to him!’
His green-brown eyes broiled with the intensity of his anguish, and he hugged his knees, silently cursing everything in the universe.
The woman, meanwhile, stood flattened against the wall, staring at him in fear. She had pressed herself into a gap between two sacks, too witless to think of looking for a weapon. After a while she too slumped to the floor but continued to eye the sorcerer cautiously, whimpering softly to herself.
Without wasting another moment Wodeman wrenched the leather bag from his belt and, after fumbling with the drawstrings, spilt its contents upon the floor.
Hungrily, desperately, he stared down at them.
His eyes widened. He blinked hard and looked again. What the . . .?
Perhaps it was a shared hallucination but to both himself and the woman it seemed as if the room around them faded into blackness, till all that could be seen – maybe all that there actually was now – was the circle of orange torchlight on the floor immediately at his knees. But what had previously been the frost-cracked flagstones of the storehouse floor now appeared to have become a stream bank somewhere in the woods, green with hazel-filtered sunlight, an alder-wood bowl resting just to one side.
As it faded, the shaman nodded in understanding of the vision’s significance. Yes, of course; he had cast his runes for the very last time.
Of all the runes that had fallen from the bag, only two lay face up. They stared up at him from their resting place on a bone-hard floor on this island at the end of the world. Like dead men’s teeth they lay and, like death itself, nothing could now be changed.
The Beast and Death.
‘Erce!’ he swore, immediately snatched up the offending runes and hurled them against the wall.
His dreams – those visions sent from Erce, channelled through himself to enlighten Bolldhe – they were now done, already given. That, Bolldhe had made quite clear upon the ice field. And now there was nothing else for Wodeman to do, no reason for him to be on the quest any more. Like a worn-out slipper, he had served his purpose, and now all that remained was slow decomposition on a rubbish dump. Despite his relative safety in the storehouse, he almost envied his fellow travellers inside the Maw.
But he did at least still have his runes, if only they would be allowed to teach him one last message. Scrabbling like a beggar whose bowl has spilt its meagre copper zlats in the dirt, Wodeman gathered the runes up in his chapped fingers and thrust them back into their bag. This time he shook them up, drew out a small handful and cast them again.
The small circle of torchlight drew in closer upon the precious runes. Again, only two of them landed face up.
The Beast and Death, again.
Wodeman’s eyes widened into a couple of hot moist circles. Had he not just thrown those two away? He leapt over to where they had landed earlier and searched every inch of the vicinity.
Gone. Not bounced away or fallen beneath a crate. Simply gone . . .
Taking no chances, Wodeman carefully removed these objectionable tiles, placed them well to one side then cast his runes for a third time.
Six fell now but only two face up.
The Beast and Death.
Wodeman cried out and scrambled away from the circle of light. His breath quickened till he was sweating beneath his furs. The woman began to moan, and Zhang, eyes rolling, joined her.
His heart like an engine thumping in his chest, Wodeman crawled forward. The Beast and Death were still there, for real, but the two he had just put aside had vanished. The Torca cursed himself for ever letting himself believe he could force a different outcome. In his arrogance he had actually thought he could help change the course of the world. He realized now beyond doubt that he should never have left his familiar woods. This place of ice and stone mocked him, and soon it would crush the life from him.
Suddenly angry, at Erce, Olchor or even Bolldhe he was not sure, Wodeman again scooped the runes back into the bag and, without bothering to shake it, tipped them all out as he had done the first time.
The Beast and Death.
Again he tried – the same. And again – the same.
And again and again and again, the low gurgle in his throat rising in pitch as each increasingly panicky ca
sting resulted in the same.
Then with a resounding blast and a brilliant flash of green light the whole set of runes exploded.
When the sorcerer finally crawled out from behind a large cask, he simply stared at the place where his beloved runes had been and whispered, ‘By the holy hagbut of Winfloeta, they’ve never done that before!’
The crunch of teeth on something hard broke the spell, and his gaze was drawn over to here the woman still huddled. She had not taken her eyes from the shaman all this time, but now, sensing the worst was over, she had scooped a handful of uncooked rice into her mouth and was eating it noisily.
Wodeman sighed. Of course, he should have known: there was never any getting away from it. His four dream-spells for guiding Bolldhe were done, and now his continued presence here was next to useless. But there was still one thing he could do, had to do. One final spell he could cast – perhaps his most powerful.
But could he really do that? After all they had suffered together it would be the basest betrayal imaginable. But also the very definition of sacrifice.
The north. Fate’s domain. Just as iron is drawn in its direction and migrating Wyverns guided by its pull, so too in the north do Fate’s iron chains pull tighter on men’s lives. It was said that the further north a man goes, the greater the influence of Fate. This maxim was known by people of every region, realm, race or religion in Lindormyn.
And here today, in this little hut, stood Fate. It did not have to be there, of course; it already knew what would happen, what had to happen. But it liked to be there anyway. just to watch. Fate was like that: assured, some said, and more than a tad conceited. So there it stood in the storehouse, its grey robes stiff and starched as a high priest’s cope, wearing that engraved stone tablet suspended as ever on a black chain round its neck.
It could never be proved, but there were those who claimed the words inscribed upon Fate’s token read, ‘Told you so.’
But Zhang knew nothing of Fate. He was a horse. All he knew in his simple animal brain was that it was bloody cold in here, and the food was crap. He wished they could go to a warmer place, with grass and proper smells, and he fervently hoped they were not going to stay here forever. Zhang had been glad to get in out of the weather’s worst excesses, and he was unutterably grateful for the chance of a rest; nevertheless, he ardently wished his friend were here now instead of these two. Who the breeder was he could not guess – she did not smell too good, which made him jittery. Even the red friendly one was behaving very oddly at the moment. Usually he was nice: he understood Zhang, gave him things he liked when he wanted them, and made him feel better when things were not right. But Zhang had not at all liked those lights and noises just now, and it was his view that the red one ought to make it up to him somehow.
Ah, here he came now, and he was holding something in one hand. The other he lifted to stroke Zhang’s muzzle and pat him firmly on the neck. Yes, this was more like it. Good old red one pressed his hairy face against Zhang’s long snout and breathed his moist human air into the Adt-T’man’s nostrils.
Still the stroking continued, moving round to his withers, soft and luxurious, sending a slight shudder along the little horse’s flanks. Closer now, the human’s face was pushed against his muzzle. Ah, this was nice, this he could really get into—
NAY!
A searing slash of pain ripped across his throat, and suddenly the air was bright with the smell of hot blood. Lots of it. His blood. Nay! What was happening? What . . .
The red one! It was the red one! What had he done? What had he done! Zhang whinnied in fear and pain, and staggered back on legs that were suddenly so weak. The red one had done something awful. He was not his friend after all . . . Zhang wanted his real friend . . .
But where was he? He must come back instantly and put things right. Now! Now stop the world spinning . . .
Weaker still, his legs folded beneath him, and he sank to the floor. He felt the flagstones smack sharply against the side of his face. But there was little pain now . . . just dull confusion, a sense of betrayal and fear.
He felt a pool of warm wetness against his cheek, and the smell of his blood was stronger. But the light began to dim from bright orange to dark red, and everything became blurred . . .
Where was his friend?
The last thing Zhang saw, as that circle of red light contracted, was a pair of little stone things with scratches on them, the things that the bad one had thrown against the wall.
They stared at him, face up.
But Zhang could not read them.
The beast was dead.
NINE
Down in the Ground Where the Dead Ones Walk
‘STOP HORSING AROUND, Wodeman, and tell us what you’ve done!’
Wodeman was back inside the Maw, deprived of his sky, his earth, of light, the very air, even of some normal sense of time. The graffiti scrawls of dementia seemed to be dancing ever more insanely upon the walls; he was scared, exhausted, and his guilt felt like a skeleton under the floorboards, an old sin he thought well hidden. And like those dirty bones, he prayed his terrible crime would remain so, and not be discovered by the nag’s unhappy owner.
Wodeman almost wished that he had never made it this far but had instead died up there somewhere on the ice. What had at first seemed a terrible necessity, now just seemed terrible, full stop. In fact, here in the unrealness of Vaagenfjord Maw he began to wonder whether he had actually committed the dreadful deed at all. But the horse’s blood was still wet upon his face, its reek like the putrefaction of his own soul. And, try as he might, he could not deny what he had done.
‘Wodeman!’ Finwald said firmly. ‘We don’t mind doing this if it makes you feel better. At this moment we’re frankly not even interested in what purpose it serves. All we want to know is where did you get it from? Whose blood is it?’
Only a little of Zhang’s blood had he used on himself; he had needed its power straightaway to grant him the strength to re-enter the Maw, to descend into that black place where all life ended. The rest of the blood he had brought along for his comrades.
Most of the vocal, physical or material components of the sorcerer’s spells were of more symbolic significance than anything else, but the spell he had performed at the storehouse, his final spell, had nothing to do with symbolic gestures. No placebo this, for the blood sacrifice of a loved one – and Zhang truly had become loved, respected and valued almost above all others during the crossing of Melhus – could bestow palpable physical power on those who accepted it, those who smeared its life force upon their faces. For they would be wearing it as their oblation to the gods, their defiance of the enemy. Those who had made this sacrifice – and that included all here, for it was their loss – would be granted by Erce a bounty of vigour, stamina, mental focus and courage the like of which no amount of months-old frozen food, Peladinic oratory or thin Cunaistic prayers could supply.
He had done it for them – for the whole world, if it came to that. And if he now felt sick with guilt and sorrow for the Adt-T’man he had personally betrayed, that was his burden to bear.
‘What have you done with the Quiravian, the woman?’ demanded the Peladane.
‘Nothing!’ Wodeman protested. ‘This blood is mine. It is my sacrif—’
But he then caught sight of Bolldhe and could not finish the sentence.
‘What I meant,’ Nibulus went on, regarding the shaman doubtfully, ‘is have you taken care of her, made sure she’s warm, safe, got food?’
‘She’s fine,’ Wodeman blurted out, conscious of how monumentally unconvincing he must sound. ‘As fine as can be expected, anyway. And I gave her back her falchion for protection.’ This was awful, Wodeman thought. No, not awful, unbearable. Was it not bad enough that he had committed the worst betrayal of his life without piling lie upon lie like this? For even now in his guilt he could not suppress the notion that if the madwoman had her falchion back, it would be that much easier to frame her for the horse�
�s death.
‘We’re wasting time,’ Bolldhe cut in. ‘Look, just give the bloody stuff here, and let’s get on!’
The shaman watched in nauseous fascination as Bolldhe tipped a few drops of his own horse’s blood out of Wodeman’s waterskin and unceremoniously daubed it across his face.
‘There!’ he said, handing it on to the others. ‘Happy now?’
‘Never felt better,’ Wodeman croaked, and on into the Maw they all continued.
How dark can dark become? How absolute is absolute? And if darkness can be absolute, what lies beyond that? This the company were now to discover as they continued down deeper into the Maw.
‘I thought you said we were supposed to be heading up!’ Bolldhe hissed in ill-concealed fear. ‘Up to the Chamber of Drauglir!’
‘That’s what they all think,’ Nibulus replied without slowing. ‘But unless you want to end up like the rest of them – that madwoman or her pretty, dead friends – you’ll ignore hearsay and concentrate on what I say. Or, rather, what the book says.’
This sermon truly annoyed Bolldhe. Their leader guarded that damn chronicle jealously, never letting anyone else in on its secrets. Typical Peladane. They always like to hold the keys to heaven . . . or hell.
They had already passed through countless halls, chambers and passageways: past long-abandoned kitchens and through soldiers’ living quarters with endless ranks of stone sleeping platforms, empty now yet still ringing faintly with the chink of bronze upon stone; between breeding pits for fat-rich seals, filled now with black, stagnant water and the ghost-echoes of underwater voices; and swiftly past the numerous shrines of Olchor and other such places of punishment where the vats had long ago been drained and the fires gone out, but where the air was still rank with the stench of blood and heavy with the blackness of torture.
Down, ever down . . .
But Finwald was in accord with their leader. ‘I myself have studied manuscripts hinting at such: to go inward, one must go down.’
A Fire in the North Page 33
