A Fire in the North
Page 36
Then something broke the monotony.
What the . . .? What’s he doing up there? Is he laughing?
There came from some place above one of the most sinister sounds that Gapp had ever heard. It was like a laugh but, carried down through the dank air of hell’s well, it arrived in his ears sounding more like the deranged gurgling of a nocturnal swamp-prowling lunatic.
It was Xilvafloese, but a Xilvafloese who was losing more and more of himself with each minute that passed.
Gapp was hardly in the most stable state of mind himself, but were there two voices issuing from the one man? It really did sound as if Xilva was now talking in two voices. One was the awful hollow whisper of the awful hollow thing he had become; the other was his previous voice, almost as it had sounded back at Wintus Hall. These two voices would call out, whispering urgently as if to something far above them, or at other times would rasp out to the empty void of the stairwell, and, as Gapp believed, would be answered by whatever floated about in that vacuum.
It was strange, so strange. Now there were sounds coming from everywhere: the creak of wooden masts, the distant calling of seafarers, a rapid clicking and high-pitched whistling like that of the fabulous marine beasts in U’throst. Yet these did not appear to come from anywhere in particular and reinforced the boy’s conviction that he was losing his mind.
Then the voice called down to him directly, and Gapp’s legs finally gave way beneath him. If anything at all around him was real, then that terrible voice must surely belong to Drauglir himself, summoning him to his chamber. Caught between the Rawgr and the deep black sea . . .
The sudden stillness of the company around him confirmed to Gapp that he was not the only one to hear it. Too weak and dithery to protest, he was hauled up the steps by the Vetters, passed from one pair of furry hands to the next, until he found himself breathing in the foul air that surrounded Methuselech.
‘C’n you ssmell it?’ that disembodied voice whispered. ‘The Lake o’ Fffire?’
‘Smell?’
‘Br’mssstone,’ it continued. ‘The Lake o’ Fffire.’
Gapp, now that he concentrated, found that he could indeed smell something reminding him of fire and sulphur.
‘We nnear the grea’ lava dyke,’ Methuselech hissed, gripping the boy by the shoulder with brittle fingers and propelling him forward. ‘Ourr fin’l d’sstina’on . . . where you c’n meet yourr fffrenns once mhorre, an’ I c’n fffinissh it once ’n’ f’ralll! Tis herre where Boll’ muss come – i’ iss the ohhnly way.’
At the head of his army Scathur pounded through the gates of Vaagenfjord Maw, his eyes narrowed to slits, steam venting from his nostrils. The shaggy cloak of white fur ruffled listlessly about him as he went, and the bardische he held in both hands before him, crossways like a quarterstaff.
Damn breeder! But she can’t get far. I’ll get her when this is all over, and when I do, I’ll turn her inside out!
The woman, whoever she was, had clearly got wind of his arrival and fled the quayside hut before Scathur’s ship had even come into harbour. She was probably skulking in one of the artillery caves back along the fjord if not already running for her life up towards the ice field. Scathur had considered sending one of the Children after her, but right now he had more pressing business to attend to, and might have need of every rawgr, wire-face or dead man available to him.
The wire-faces trooped in after their captain, following him into the darkness of the Maw bearing neither lantern nor torch. The freezing sea fog of late afternoon twisted around them and beaded their aprons, stiffened with cold now as well as oil and blood. As ever they moved without words and with only the barest sound of feet slapping upon stone.
Scathur sniffed the air but did not slow. Without deviation or delay he marched his troop straight up the wide staircase and on into the narrower confines where the debris of the last pack of thieves still remained. Through this area, with its recent stench of female, they went, and without hesitation plunged on into the inner reaches. The scent of his quarry was easy to follow, for bitter smoke and fear-infused sweat befouled the stony purity of his master’s abode.
The further they went, though, the more urgent became their pace, for it began to appear that these latest invaders were penetrating to the deeper levels more swiftly than any of the previous raiders. Scathur grew increasingly unsettled. It was clear that this group was not bothering to explore the outer reaches but was heading instead straight for the heart of the Maw. Had his soul not been so black with hatred, Scathur might have felt a certain twinge of admiration. This lot were certainly not messing about. Did they have some inside information?
Soon they were descending into the Moghol itself, and there was a creaking of metallic calipers and a stirring of the black waters as the Dead rose up about them in the dark, moaning in greeting. Along the Trough Wrythe’s army now waded, and all the time the Dead lurched out to join them and swell their numbers.
But inevitably the Dead fell behind Scathur and his army, for they were slow-moving and he refused to tarry. The light from the Hall of Fire was even now coming into view, and it was here that Scathur knew his quarry would have headed. Not long now. They must be around here somewhere.
But they were not. For as Scathur approached the Urn it became apparent that these new trespassers had actually survived the Moghol! Curses polluted the dim orange light around him. They had survived the Trough of the Dead!
That had never happened before, not once in five hundred years.
The captain of Vaagenfjord Maw was genuinely worried now and barked commands to climb more quickly. There could be no delay now. He could not even afford to await the arrival of his emburdened rearguard and watch them tip the pickled people into the Urn. And there was certainly no time to stay and witness the emergence of the freshly dead from its depths. The mysterious enemy could not be far from the tunnel leading to the inner keep by now.
Belching threats of eternal torture at his wire-faces, Scathur drove his army as fast as possible on up to Smaulka-Degernerth. With tongues lolling from their open mouths, they hared off in pursuit of Bolldhe and his company.
The final stretch of the hunt had begun.
Just as they had spent their first hour in Smaulka-Degernerth, the company persevered for many more long hours. How many hours they could not tell, for their minds could only focus on the task of placing one foot in front of the other. Everything else – their pain, nausea, thirst, exhaustion, even consciousness of who they were and why they were here – was thrust aside.
Yet into their somnambulistic torpor swam now and then images of some gigantic horned devil, some wolf-headed colossus with skin as gleaming and scalding as newly forged iron, which would surely rise from that dread pit of fire immediately to their right, filling the hall and reaching out for them with soot-blackened talons.
But the great hall of Smaulka-Degernerth did not go on forever. Curving imperceptibly but relentlessly around to the right, it did eventually come nearly full circle and was in effect a huge moat almost entirely surrounding the inner keep of Ymla-Myrrdhain. For that wall of stone that lay just on the other side of the river of fire, that glowing surface which they had beheld upon first entering this mighty cavern, and remained in sight all this time, was in fact the outer wall of Drauglir’s central bastion. However, even if a way could be found to cross the wide channel of swiftly flowing liquid stone, there seemed to be nothing on the other side but blank rock – no opening for doorway or window, no battlements or ledges, not even the meagrest of arrow slit. Just mile after mile of solid rock.
After a time that might well have been measured by the slide of glaciers or the levelling of mountains, a time of pouring sweat, ragged throat and blinded eye, Bolldhe finally lifted his gaze from the smoking toecaps of his boots, and through the oily mask that coated his face stared upon what lay ahead. The Hall of Fire, this great fissure, was at last coming to an end.
Through the blinding glare and fumes d
istance and dimension were difficult to gauge, but it seemed to Bolldhe that they had about a mile to go. This last stretch saw the ledge they followed narrow slightly and gradually slope down. Closer to the surface of the moat it descended, until the walls of the tunnel curved in towards each other and met, and through a large doorway in this wall the ledge disappeared into darkness. The river of fire, running fast and thick along its own narrower channel, flowed on through a great archway and disappeared down a gargantuan chute, like a fiery waterfall descending into the very foundations of Lindormyn.
Bolldhe’s soul surged, for he had no heed of what perils might lurk within that dark portal, so glad he was that surcease from this fiery tribulation was at hand. Mouth clamped shut, he shook Nibulus’s shoulder roughly and pointed out to him the doorway, a black oblong whose darkness promised blissful coolness. Nibulus glanced up, croaked and eagerly waved the company on.
Jolted from their stupor, they staggered ahead on this last lap of the race, heedless in their haste to plunge their tortured bodies into that blessed darkness. But though it had smothered their thoughts and cauterized their senses, the hours in that terrible place had not eroded away all survival instinct. Appa, despite his immense relief, suddenly felt something behind him and glanced back the way they had come.
He slowed, then came to a stop. What was it he was looking at? Through the commotion of elements and the curtain of sweat before his eyes, Appa could not be sure what he was seeing, but it was almost as if the ledge further back, where they had been walking only minutes before, was somehow shifting . . . no, running would be a better word.
Appa continued to stare, his fast-disappearing friends forgotten for the moment. Could it be that the very road upon which they had just travelled was now melting behind them? For there was definite movement upon its surface, some kind of frenetic torrent, a—
‘Oh Cuna . . .’
Appa stood paralysed where he had stopped, a new pillar of salt to join the fiery elements of that place and forever bear testimony to his folly. He could not even think to turn and run or call out to his companions. All he could do was stare. For, perhaps a few hundred yards away and closing fast, a long column of figures was marching towards him with dreadful purpose. Heads lowered, their manner murderous and with fire reflecting blood-red from the jagged shards of metal they bore and the wires that criss-crossed their faces, the guardians of Vaagenfjord Maw bore down on the intruders. What they were and where they had come from, Appa did not know, for they did not look like the Dead; yet they were led by Death itself, a tall warrior cloaked in bone-white, who held a massive poleaxe in both hands.
Appa stood as though his legs were held fast in quicksand. All his faculties had packed up, abandoning him to his fate. All, that is, except for one instinct that now screamed in his brain. Evil has arrived, and you are going to die!
That was enough for the frail Lightbearer. With a cry he wrenched himself out of his paralysis and leapt after his companions, yelling out as loud as his lungs could manage, ‘THEY ARE COMING! IT’S ALL UP! THE HORDE OF DARKNESS! THEY ARE COMING!’
The first the others knew about the impending danger was the little grey stick-man – who only hours ago had lain almost dead from the heat and his own exhaustion – bursting through their midst from behind, almost spinning them around on their heels and sprinting on towards the doorway, still wailing. As one they whirled around to look behind them, knowing that whatever it was it was bound to be bad.
It was indeed. The enemy had at long last arrived. Their true enemy. No shuffling tomb guardians or vestigial shades of evil, no traps contrived of spear, pitfall or exploding glyph. The dire host that loped towards them was very much alive.
A second or two of eye-widening incredulity, then all five of them were following the priest. The animal roar of what sounded like a thousand snarling berserkers rose up behind them. Along the ledge they surged in frenzied pursuit of their prey, and Vaagenfjord Maw once again licked its lips in anticipation of war.
But there were others in that same place and at that same time. Not the Tyvenborgers, for they had been for some time now preoccupied with their pilfering and plundering. It was Methuselech and the Cyne-Tregva company who lurked in the shadows beyond the doorway, for many hours awaiting the arrival of the travellers from Nordwas. For it was here, Methuselech knew, that Bolldhe, Finwald and their companions had to come if they were to gain entry to Ymla-Myrrdhain. None save he knew of the secret way up from the sea cave.
It was a long tunnel that sloped steeply up from the doorway in the Hall of Fire. There strange sounds whispered hollowly and shadows danced against the dim red glow radiating from the magma beyond. The Drake Tunnel it was called – Lubang-Nagar, in the language of rawgrs – and it was here that the worst of the fighting had taken place five hundred years ago.
Horrendous beyond belief had been the carnage, for this narrow but vital artery that had flowed with the blood and entrails of both defenders and attackers was the only ingress to Ymla-Myrrdhain, and the place where neither side could, or would, fall back. Here men had died in their hundreds, as much from heat, asphyxiation and the press of their comrades as from sword, claw or flame.
And here again, an entire age of men later, the forces of Pel-Adan and Olchor would be reunited, albeit in greatly reduced numbers.
Gapp, still sick from the sea voyage, the steep climb and the proximity of Methuselech’s disintegrating shell, crouched with the rest of the company in stuffy darkness at the upper end of the Drake Tunnel, staring down its length towards the ember-like glow at the far end.
He longed to be away from this place, this pointless madness, for he knew in his heart there would be no joyous renunion with his old comrades. They were gone long ago, either lost in the wilderness or dead. Or they had done what he himself should have done ages ago, and simply gone off home. But where else could he go? And what was Methuselech thinking? Gapp turned his gaze away from the burning light at the end of the tunnel, that spot on which all eyes were fixed, to find himself looking into the glaucous fish-eyes of Methuselech.
But there was no humanity to be detected there, just two opaque discs that reflected the redness while giving it a silvery sheen. Those eyes would surely look at nothing else now. They were sunken, dried up, unblinking.
A coldness crept through the boy’s innards. Was Xilva actually still alive? It had always been a moot point, of course, but here, now, the man looked so still – in fact stiff.
Then the chill intensified, but not from fear. There was something happening now, something in the air itself. It was a sensation, a power that could be felt in the hair and on the skin. As Gapp continued to stare, he saw Methuselech’s hair, normally so lank and straggly these days it resembled washed-up seagrass, begin to animate: there was no other word for it. Methuselech’s hair was starting to rise as if possessed by the spirit of the man who was finally departing its corpse.
Gapp looked down at the backs of his own hands, for he felt the hairs stand up there too. A quick glance around at Shlepp, Hwald, Finan, Englarielle, all the others, confirmed that they too were experiencing this bizarre phenomenon.
The air of Lubang-Nagar was coming alive – and it bristled with energy.
Following the priest, the five men fled stumbling along the last stretch of the ledge towards the portal. Their bodies burnt from within and without as they gasped in lungful after lungful of scalding air down already inflamed throats. But that doorway, a black gash in the glassy skin of the red rock face ahead, was beckoning to them with an oasis-like allure, the only thing that any of them could think about.
Bolldhe, again, was last. Into his mind flashed a sequence of jarring memories: images of snow-shawled mountains, the feel of upland turf beneath his feet, the smell of sultry late-summer air. But there was nothing like that here, just a growing clamour of hooting, bawling, growling Ogha gaining on him with every second. The doorway was still far off, and soon they would inevitably begin to slow down.
Bolldhe obeyed and continued without even slowing his pace.
The thresher! he thought, recalling that amazing chain-extension for the Peladane’s Greatsword. If Nibulus managed to bring that to bear, maybe they could make the doorway after all. Hope rekindled in his heart, Bolldhe eased off and twisted around to witness the awful destruction wrought by Kuw Dachs’s flail weapon.
Immediately hot tears stung his eyes. There stood Nibulus, a black silhouette all alone on the ledge, swinging the pendulous weight of his Greatsword around in ever-widening circles at the end of the razor-studded chain of the thresher. His emerald-green Ulleanh swirled about him like a war banner and from some deep well of fortitude he succeeded in summoning up a roar of defiance against the onrushing legion.
But they did not even slow. They seemed unmindful of his heroism, uncowed by his wall of flailing death. For they were captained by Death itself, and ever swifter they charged down upon their foe. Their phantom-sheeted leader surged ahead of them, his robe streaming out behind like the shroud of a revenant, his bardische held out lance-like before him.
Their eyes met, the captain’s and the Peladane’s, and it was then that Nibulus realized that he was about to die. Looking into those eyes he knew he had been singled out because he was the one wearing the Ulleanh. He was therefore the one marked out as a Peladane, and it was for him alone now that the D’Archangel was coming. Nibulus’s defiant roar ebbed away and died.