A Fire in the North

by David Bilsborough

  So down they had gone, down a long tunnel, a particularly lowceilinged and narrow tunnel, tube-like and winding so it gave the explorers the impression they were slipping down some gigantic artery leading to the heart of a monstrous beast. Or even, judging by the smell that grew the further they descended, to its bowels.

  Gwyllch’s Chronicle spoke of a number of such tunnels, many of which had been used by the Peladane scouts and light infantry to gain entry to the places deeper in. Using these tunnels, those soldiers of long ago had bypassed the worst of the fighting and arrived at the inner reaches hours before the main force. This meant that they were the first to get themselves slaughtered by the dreadful denizens that lurked within, but as Gwyllch blithely noted: ‘. . . you cann’t hav yore kaikke and eate itte’.

  This sinuous artery finally opened out into a large place. A very large place. Though there was no echo nor any movement of air, they could nevertheless sense an enormous space about them. Indeed, they appeared to have arrived at the lip of some immense pit. Bolldhe’s lantern, even set on narrow beam, illuminated nothing down there beyond the encompassing wall of an abyss, and they all knew instinctively that, wherever it was that they had come to, it must surely now be well below even the level of the sea.

  From this pit rose the most sickening life-draining fetor that any of them had ever been forced to breathe. It was as though the earth, no longer able to contain the vileness of its deepest darkest secret, had broken the crust of its millennia-old scabbed-over plague pits to disgorge the pestilential decay therein.

  A series of crumbling stairways, flue-like chutes and sheer drops (for which Elfswith’s ropes and hooks proved necessary) eventually brought the men, coughing and retching, to the very bottom of the pit. And it was here, down where the air itself seemed compressed by the weight of so much rock above them, that they found out what lies on the other side of absolute darkness.

  It was a kind of anti-light, not merely an absence of light but a negative force that actually drained much of the illumination from their feeble torches. Even Bolldhe’s lantern was next to useless, as its faint gleam, thin as watery milk, bled away from it in trailing wisps.

  ‘Stay very close together,’ the Peladane commanded, his voice sounding strange and barely audible, ‘and keep your left hand always on the wall. If this place is the Trough – the Moghol – that Gwyllch writes about, then we need to follow it for about an hour or so. Do that, and then we’ll almost be at the inner keep.’

  They waded, knee-deep, through water now, oily brackish stuff that tried ever to hold them or suck them under, and which left a crusty slightly wriggling deposit upon their breeches. The hems of their cloaks and furs trailed behind them, clogged with the scum that floated upon the surface, and with nearly every other step they stumbled on things that crunched beneath their boots and emitted bubbles of evil gas.

  The company was surprised to find they had the fortitude to persevere. Perhaps Wodeman’s mysterious blood spell was proving efficacious after all. For this place was surely the worst by far that any of them had chanced upon in their entire lives. They did not merely feel as if buried alive in come ancient crypt in a necropolis; this was far deeper, more primordial, as though they had tunnelled their way down to the lowest level of the underworld itself, the uttermost abode of the Dead. Like the shades of the departed that wander bodiless through the labyrinth of hell, they appeared to each other ill-defined and not quite real, and all they could hear above the swirl of water was their own breath, increasingly laboured as dark fear and the weight of the rock above pressed in on them.

  Time stretched out distorted, and still they struggled on, each beginning to feel an unspoken fear that they were not alone down here. At first the unsure wheeze of each other’s breathing was all that they had been aware of, but now it seemed that the exhalations of others were joining them, and the further they walked, the more breathing they could hear. It was undoubtedly the voices of the Dead, awakened by the breathing of the living and responding in mimicry. They were all around them, following them, joining them. And below that, the almost subsonic breathing of something so much larger – something monstrous, something so much deeper, which wrapped itself around them, penetrating armour and clothes, sinking into their pores and shivering under their skin.

  From here there could be no point turning back, so on they trudged, doggedly placing one foot in front of the other, blanking out their fears, wild imaginings, hearing, even consciousness. On and on through the dead place. At times came ghosts of sounds from a distance that was impossible to judge. The squeaking of . . . bats? No, not bats, more like metal joints, or sometimes a heavier sound like poleaxes being dragged across a stone floor. Sounds that did not make any sense in this submerged world.

  At some later time when it seemed that they had been down here too long to ever hope to rejoin the living Wodeman made a rattling noise in his throat and bade them to halt. They stood stock-still and listened.

  . . . rap, rappitty-pat-tap, rap-rappitty-pat-tap, rap-rappitty-pat-tap . . .

  Finally the dream-like monotony of their progress was punctuated. Something, at last, was happening.

  . . . rap-rappitty-pat-tap, rap-rappitty-pat-tap, rap-rappitty-pat-tap . . .

  Some kind of drumbeat?

  ‘Nibulus!’ Bolldhe whispered. ‘Does your book have anything to say about . . . that?’

  But no answer came back to him. Nibulus, like the rest, stayed motionless and silent. For an age it seemed the company stood there, reluctant to speak, even to think. As before, they blanked out all imaginings, but to put one foot before the other was now no longer an option. All they could do was stand and listen.

  Bolldhe raised a hand to his face to wipe away the sweat that clogged his eyebrows. As he did so, his fingers felt the stickiness of the blood smeared on his brow. Wodeman’s blood. Mad old hermit. Did he really imagine it would make any difference here? Then, for no apparent reason, into his mind trotted the image of his horse. He could smell the beast’s muskiness, feel the congenial shoving – gentle but insistent – of his muzzle against Bolldhe’s shoulder in the mornings – the warm glow of Zhang, his only true friend in the world. Thank Fate or Chance you’re safely out of this, old mate, he thought as he stood knee-deep in foul water, eyes straining through the darkness, listening to sounds that should not be there.

  Others of the company too found themselves thinking of Zhang, of his playful affection, his sense of humour; the companion who would never betray them and had been their strength and inspiration out on the ice field. The sheer character of that tough little beast! But above all they recalled the way he would never give up, but would forge on resolutely until death took him.

  As one, their fingers moved to touch the blood Wodeman had marked them with and, though they knew not why, a new strength infused them. In this their hour of deepest fear, they could all draw upon this new seed of courage, and once again push on one step at a time. Even Appa was revitalized, helped along with Finwald’s hand for support.

  Now Bolldhe began to understand what made their little party so unique, why they alone would succeed where all others had failed. They had Nibulus with his chronicle, Finwald with his years of research and now Wodeman’s strange gift of blood. How many other questing groups had ever possessed even one of those advantages?

  But their new strength was not to last. Closer the drumbeat sounded until suddenly Wodeman let out a small croak and pointed ahead. The company stared through disbelieving eyes as a mass of figures swam into view.

  It was blacker than black down here, yet they were aureoled in a pale spectral luminosity that surrounded them like a gas lamp in the fog: a column of soldiers marching towards them. Tattered robes were worn proudly over armour that still gleamed between rips, punctures and dark viscid smears. Singed beards and ragged greasy hair had been roughly combed and straightened, and a fierce light smouldered in their tired eyes. The slow stirring melody of their song could be heard but sounded muf
fled by the deadness of this place or the passing of centuries beneath the water. Their feet, though ankle-deep in water, made the hollow sound of hobnailed leather clumping upon dry stone and caused no ripples.

  As they came closer, the sighs of the Dead rose all around them as a troubled and babbling chorus. Closer still, now louder of song and brighter of eye. Then abruptly the head of the column turned and marched towards the wall. One by one the lost patrol disappeared through the rocky side of the Trough, and as each one vanished dimmer glowed their aureole and quieter became their song.

  But the sighing of the Dead did not hush; indeed it grew stronger, more urgent, hungrier, as each ghostly soldier faded into the rock. Finally, there was but one left: one disagreeable man-at-arms who had less radiance but more substance. He sought to follow his comrades but instead smote his helmeted head against the wall with a dull clang and a sharp yelp of pain.

  He turned, and eyes that were yellow and inhuman fell upon the six watchers, who stood rooted to the spot. A malefic grin twisted his features, and then he came for them.

  There was a fluttering of light, a brief confusion of shadows and, with a weak fizzing sound, the lantern went out.

  ‘No! Not now,’ Bolldhe whined in his own tongue and frantically pumped the xienne rod to rekindle the flame. But the fuel, it seemed, had run out.

  ‘Find another xienne stick,’ Appa gasped. But it was far too late for that.

  ‘Charge!’ roared the Peladane, released at last from his limbo of stillness, and he stormed ahead. Unable either to turn back or stay, there was now only one way to go. Without a sliver of vacillation his men sprang after him. Whereupon the howling cacophony of the Moghol erupted around them.

  Just as fish will rise from the stagnant depths of a pond on a midge-filled summer’s evening, the Dead came up to feed.

  Appa was the first, he who – as the oldest – was closest to them. He let out a childlike squeal as clawed steel-hard hands lunged out of the mire to fasten in his bearskin. He was swung round and almost yanked off his feet, as the Dead tried to pull him under, but Finwald managed to catch hold of one arm. Still the deathly hands would not let go and, though heaving with all his might, there was nothing Finwald could do to stop them dragging the screaming priest down among them.

  Shadowy faces came at them from out of the darkness, bodies reared up in fountains of vile water with savage bellows, and amid the screams of despair from both priests Paulus appeared from behind. With a casual back-swing he passed his blade through the wrists of the cluching hands, severing them with surgical precision even in the dark.

  He did not stop to offer further help, but neither did the priests tarry, for the Dead were exploding from the water all around. Nightmare images flashed as torches were swung about as wildly as weapons. The cries of the hunted, the wailing of the Dead, the fury of the seething water – through this mayhem the travellers fled for their lives.

  Torch brandished in his left hand, his right hand holding Unferth over his shoulder, Nibulus charged. Two ghoulish faces that were almost all mouth lunged at him. Without hesitation, he jammed his torch into the mouth of one with such force it punched clean through the back of its skull. At the other he lashed out with one iron-capped boot, hurling the cadaver back through the air to splinter against the wall. With both hands free now, though totally blind, Nibulus plunged on through the Trough, scything his Greatsword before him like a threshing machine.

  All his men could do was follow the sound of Nibulus’s charge and hope that Bolldhe could fumble a new xienne rod into the lantern while simultaneously floundering ahead as fast as he could move.

  Of all of them, Wodeman probably had the least difficulty. The moment they were attacked, instinct took control and he was at last freed from fear. The animal trapped is at its most dangerous, and the wolf-man fought tooth and claw, not even thinking of the tulwar dangling from his hemp belt. Where his eyes could not see, his other senses took over, and in a snake-quick frenzied dance of flailing limbs and headbutts he ducked, dodged, sidestepped and swerved his way after the charging Peladane.

  Whether Fate or Chance held any sway in the underworld was a question debated by philosophers for centuries. But it felt as if something was on their side that day, for beyond all expectation the company from the south emerged from the Moghol in one piece.

  Even in his blind panic, Bolldhe managed to slow himself down long enough to slide a fresh rod of xienne out of his belt pouch and into the lantern’s aperture. Pumping fast, he soon had it lit again and shone it ahead – the only direction he was interested in.

  Among the vague forms that lumbered through the anti-light, his desperate gaze picked out his companions rapidly receding before him, and he pelted after them. They had managed to do as ordered and keep to the wall, so were soon all together again within the lantern light and heading in the direction they wanted to be going.

  With the moans of the Dead slipping further behind, the darkness seemed to become thinner. It was not that they could see anything beyond the radius of the lantern, but just that the negative light seemed less potent here. As did the stench. Also the water level was gradually subsiding.

  About an hour later they emerged from the sucking ooze and at last beheld, like a beacon high above them, a shaft of orange light: Smaulka-Degernerth, the great Hall of Fire.

  They had come to the end of the Moghol.

  Dolen Catscaul brushed away the single red tear that welled in her eye and bit hard on her grey lower lip.

  Steady, old girl, she scolded herself mentally, as she fought to keep control. No time for weakness now.

  With a show of finality and purpose as unconvincing to her companions as it was to herself she slid both of her knives into their scabbards, hoisted her pack onto her shoulders and stood ready to go.

  There was a subdued and serious air in the chamber as the thieves went about their preparations. Calmly and efficiently they checked their equipment, made sure everything was in its correct place and fastened things down. The stony room, cramped and unventilated, smelt strongly of sweat and rustled quietly with the hushed toing and froing of the adventurers. In the light from the various torches and lanterns their huge distorted shadows moved upon the walls and ceiling like demons going about their dreadful business.

  But the Dhracus’s heart was not in it. She had left that back in Eotunlandt with the blood-drained shell of her swain Eggledawc. She wept inwardly. Why was she still here, with these strangers, now he was gone?

  With mental discipline few humans possessed, she went through her breathing exercises, then pushed the weighty lump of her tragedy down, far down inside her, and was in perfect control once more.

  Swiftly and methodically she cast her black eyes over her fellows, appraising them. They were not such a bad lot, really, she told herself. Since that tragic day in Eotunlandt they had changed somehow, had behaved differently towards her. Whereas previously they would keep their distance, these days they often came forward to offer their help. This had been especially noticeable during that horrendous crossing of the island, and Dolen was touched by their unexpected thoughtfulness. She had had no shortage of offers to warm her body with theirs. Indeed it seemed to her that they had almost been fighting among themselves to get close to her . . .

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a harsh voice. ‘Right, are we all ready?’ demanded Eorcenwold. His sister Aelldryc snapped a dozen dragon’s teeth, one by one, into the appropriate hoops in his bandolier. He looked his company over. They were ready, of course, as always. For they were Tyvenborgers.

  ‘Good. Then let’s get on with it. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover.’

  He folded his big hand firmly over Aelldryc’s shoulder. ‘All right, sis?’ She nodded solidly, unmasking none of the fear that threatened to snap her nerves like a jib-stay, and returned his gesture. As any true sister of Eorcenwold should.

  He turned back to his men. ‘Remember, that place down there’ll probably be like nothing
we’ve ever imagined, and we’ll doubtless find some pretty weird stuff, one way or another. But don’t you be letting it get to you – there’s nothing alive here any more, nothing which can hurt you. Apart from the traps. So stay close to me and Brecca. Stay alert and for Nokk’s sake don’t get jumpy, all right?’

  Dolen’s face was a mask, geisha-white and without expression, as she listened to the words of their leader. But she had been watching the other thieves as they readied themselves for the descent – sharpening their blades, practising fighting moves, securing shield and armour; if there truly was ‘nothing alive here anymore’ then what exactly were they preparing for?

  But there was no time to ponder that now. His morning star held ready, Eorcenwold was heading over to the arched tunnel that dropped down through the stoney bulk of Ravenscairn. The others parted to let him pass, looking each other in the eye without speaking. ‘Klijjver,’ he ordered, ‘you’re behind me. Let’s go.’

  ‘It’s getting hotter,’ Brecca fretted in that fussy little midget-Hauger voice of his, ‘I tell you, it’s getting—’

  ‘Hotter, yes, we know.’ Oswiu cut him off. ‘If Khuc’s sketch is right, we’re probably about five minutes away from the greatest caveful of white-hot volcano juice in Lindormyn. Of course it’s getting hotter!’

  Brecca the Stone Hauger kept close to Eorcenwold’s side and scanned the walls, ceiling and floor as they made their way down the tunnel. In the narrow stifling confines of the passage moods were turning sour, one might even say waspish, and Brecca’s self-evident observations were not well received. He scraped his noduled fingers around his neck beneath his hood and flicked a spray of salty sweat against the wall beside him.

  ‘Eorcenwold,’ he hissed, ‘it really is getting—’

  The leader silenced him with one raised finger. ‘Not another word,’ he hissed. ‘Eyes open, mouth shut . . . unless you spot any traps.’

  Brecca was confused but did not wish to risk further contempt, admonishment or threats by asking questions. Did Eorcenwold want him to shut his eyes if he saw a trap? he wondered.