A Fire in the North

by David Bilsborough

  Nibulus’s lingering gaze moved on, and it was then that his grief was frozen out of him by the vision of his dead esquire with some twisted little demon by his side. Both of them were staring intently at him from not a dozen feet away.

  For such was how they appeared. Memories of the Moghol, where dead men walk again, were still too fresh in his mind for him to reach any but the most obvious conclusion. Apparently, Nibulus and his troop had struggled through those terrible places to experience an even greater evil in Ymla-Myrrdhain, where dwelt the worst horrors of the underworld. This emaciated, filth-caked, subhuman ghoul with its sunken eyes and the stench of night soil could not be the real Gapp Radnar, any more than was the sick parody of a human beside him.

  ‘I saw you die,’ he whispered. But even as he said it, he realized how inaccurate that was.

  As if reading his thoughts, the boy spoke as he moved forward: ‘You may have seen me fall, but you did not see me die.’

  The voice was the same. The eyes too, though hungry and unhinged. And the hairy little imp in the outsized helmet by his side had the air of one who had shared their suffering, not one who dealt it out.

  ‘Radnar?’ Nibulus murmured, half in a dream.

  Gapp neither nodded nor smiled. ‘Mister Radnar, to you,’ he replied, then reached out towards Nibulus, clasped his hands round an arm and helped him to his feet.

  Gapp stared about himself, giddy with the storm of feelings churning through his insides: wondrous joy, paralysing horror, dizzying relief, confusion, fear and despair. But most of all amazement. He felt like one who has finally woken from a months-long sleep and the nightmares that stalked through it.

  My old mates! Thought them gone beyond any hope. Who could’ve believed that the Mauglad-ghoul’s promises would actually come true?

  An urgent tug at his arm brought his attention back to his companion, the Vetter chief. He turned to Englarielle, saw the questioning look on his face and by way of response could only shrug.

  ‘Don’t ask me, friend,’ he said after a moment. ‘I haven’t got a clue what’s going on either.’

  He wished dearly that he could understand Vetter, or that Polgrim patois he had heard Englarielle use with Xilva so often. But Xilva was now gone beyond recall, and with him had gone their only leader, their direction and their purpose. Utterly at a loss now, the Vetter chief clasped hands with the boy, staring into his eyes in supplication. What do I tell my people now? he seemed to be entreating.

  All Gapp could do was gesticulate for the Cynen to head further up the tunnel to rejoin the Tregvans and wait for him there. Best if he keeps his lot out of sight until my own lot have recovered, he reasoned, They’ve suffered enough without meeting an army of weird-looking Cyne-Tregvans in this devilish place.

  ‘What in Gwyllch’s name was that thing?’ the Peladane breathed, pointing after the departing Vetter with a shudder.

  ‘Captain of my army,’ Gapp boasted.

  He looked Nibulus directly in the eye probably for the first time in his entire life. As Nibulus looked back at him, there was wonder in the Peladane’s regard, wonder at first over the simple fact that Gapp was still alive. And then, as it sunk in, nothing less than awe that he was here, of all places. How in all the world the lad had managed to make his way in past all the terrors and dangers that they themselves had come through, Nibulus could not begin to imagine. And with an army, he said? There was a surge of pride in the Peladane’s heart; he had clearly taught his esquire well.

  ‘So, you finally caught up with us then,’ he said to his servant.

  Gapp laughed. It was just a quick laugh, but it was the first one he had emitted for an entire age, it seemed. And it felt so good. Now, at long last in the company of his friends again – normal people, for once – he could laugh and smile, maybe relax a little. In short, return to his normal self. It was a wonderful feeling and did more to revive him than any medicine.

  ‘It’s good to see you all, Nibulus,’ he replied. ‘It really is. I never believed we’d meet again.’

  ‘And yet you came here?’

  ‘Only because of him.’ He jerked his thumb back down to the tunnel entrance.

  ‘Him?’ Nibulus was puzzled.

  ‘Methuselech,’ Finwald choked, still gagging at the memory.

  Methuselech? Nibulus wondered.

  Just then, dragging footsteps were heard down in the darkness. Nibulus and the others turned and peered down the passage, frozen into immobility.

  ‘It can’t be!’

  ‘It’s that ghost-cloak with the poleaxe come back to get us!’

  Sure enough, a tall robed figure was emerging from the darkness – a black shadow approaching with a slow but determined pace.

  Then Paulus came fully into view, and they relaxed.

  He was carrying something about the size, shape and texture of a set of bagpipes. But as soon as he joined them in the circle of lamplight the whole company drew back in revulsion, uttering oaths at him, the vilest of their number.

  ‘Paulus!’ cried Nibulus in disbelief, ‘why do you do it? Why must you always be so disgusting?’

  The Nahovian sat down heavily, uncaring of their repugnance. Humming merrily, he began tying into knots the tubes of the gall bladder he had just hacked from its owner.

  ‘Each to his own,’ he replied, smirking. ‘You never know – it might come in handy before the day is out.’

  They shook their heads, not even wanting to imagine what use the mercenary might find for a Fyr-Draikke’s gall bladder.

  ‘Still,’ Nibulus admitted, ‘I suppose you of all here have earned the right to claim the hero’s portion. How could you find the courage to go up against that . . . thing, when all others were laid low? Not even the Peladanes of old dared attack it singly. Truly the spirit of Gwyllch dwells strongly within you, Odf Uglekort!’

  Paulus’s eye met those of the Peladane. He was speechless. Never to his knowledge had Nibulus accorded anyone so high an accolade as that. But it was then, in his moment of silence, that Paulus noticed Gapp for the first time. His body stiffened.

  ‘You!’ he whispered in disbelief.

  ‘Me,’ Gapp confirmed.

  Paulus just stared – and stared. Like all of them he had believed the boy dead, long ago buried deep beneath the Rainflats. But, unlike the others, Paulus knew the boy had not died in Nym-Cadog’s well. Ignoring its plea for help, he had been the last to hear Gapp’s voice rising from deep in the silver mine near Myst-Hakel. For several minutes of guilty shock all he could do was gape.

  Gapp smiled nervously. ‘All right, then, Paulus?’ he said awkwardly by way of greeting. He wondered if this was the first time he had actually spoken to the mercenary, unable as he was to recall any previous occasion.

  Paulus continued to stare hard, as if trying to read Gapp’s soul. Did the boy realize how he had betrayed him? After a further moment of close scrutiny he felt satisfied; the boy did not have a clue.

  ‘Fine. You?’ he replied, and went back to tying off his gall bladder.

  ‘We have to leave now,’ Nibulus announced. ‘That ermine-clad fiend with the huge axe is still out there somewhere. The army he brought with him fled from the Fyr-Draikke, not from us. Once he’s rounded them up again, they’ll be back.’

  ‘It’s Scathur,’ Gapp informed them.

  ‘Scathur?’ Nibulus echoed. ‘The Scathur? Don’t talk excrement, boy.’

  ‘It’s Scathur, I tell you!’ Gapp snapped, angry all of a sudden. His voice strove to sound manly but was still constricted by the tones of adolescence. Nevertheless, his defiance was enough. Everyone looked up, startled.

  ‘It’s Scathur,’ Gapp repeated, his voice calmer now that he had their attention. ‘I’ve never seen him, but I have felt him. And I’ve definitely seen enough of those wire-faces to last me a lifetime.’ He ignored their puzzled looks and pressed on: ‘I’ve brought my own army – I’ll introduce you in a minute – but he’s got much worse things up his sleve than wire-face
s. Yes, Nibulus, you’re right, we do have to leave. Right now.’

  How, who, where, when, why and what? Those were the questions. There were a thousand questions to be asked on both sides, but no one wanted to tarry here in this tunnel so close to the enemy and the new horror it would bring. So they gathered up their equipment and followed the boy up the passageway, deferring any enlightenment till they had found somewhere they could hole up in whatever safety and concealment was available in this place.

  Suddenly, an enormous hell hound was blocking the passage ahead and growling at them demonically.

  Then Gapp was calling out to this ferocious guardian of Lubang-Nagar, ‘Here, boy! Shlepp!’

  Next two antler-heads came up from behind to stand beside the hound.

  Then, finally, the return of the ‘hairy little imp in the outsized helmet’, bringing with him about fifty other hairy lookalikes, also heavily armed.

  This was going to take the humans some time to assimilate. And the questions kept piling up.

  Unlike the Testament of Khuc, Gwyllch’s Chronicle contained no floor plans, maps or diagrams. Its writer had been somewhat preoccupied when he had come this way, and had somewhat inconsiderately omitted the cartographic detail they would have found useful at this point. There was thus nothing to guide them to a spot where they could rest, talk and try to regain that proportion of their wits that still remained to them.

  So, with Nibulus leading the way, they now entered the inner keep of Ymla-Myrrdhain simply hoping for the best.

  As soon as they ventured beyond the chamber at the top of Lubang-Nagar they realized that they had entered an entirely different zone to those they had journeyed through so far. The dereliction of the outer halls, the utter blackness of the Moghol, the fiery commotion of Smaulka-Degernerth, all these had been as different from each other as it was possible to be.

  But Ymla-Myrrdhain, this final manifestation of Vaagenfjord Maw, was like nothing any of them had ever imagined. In the outer Maw their souls had been chilled; in the Hall of Fire they had been seared; in the Trough they had seemingly been sucked down into the mud. Here, however, the effect upon their souls was alluring, bewitching and insidiously disturbing all at once.

  The first thing they noticed was the reflections from their lanterns and torches. After the darkness of the Drake Tunnel this place fairly shimmered with light and colour. As Bolldhe played his lantern about, light sprang from a thousand different surfaces which, even after the beam had passed on, would yet glow for a while with a soft luminosity. But it was also strangely subdued, and in the torchlight it looked as if a fine spray of blood were falling slowly through the air.

  Floors, which sloped at illogical angles, were paved with purple and turquoise marble that retained a flawless sheen despite the despoliation of both Peladanes and time. These floors were shot through with veins of cobaltite that in the flickering lantern’s beam appeared to throb with a pulse as though they carried a lifeblood of mercury to some vast and unnatural heart. Walls too had been built to a bizarre geometry, so that it became difficult to discern the difference between near and far, up and down or right and left. Many were covered in glassy panels that depicted grossly perverted images of nature and other themes darker still.

  All about them rose columns. Some had no base and appeared to hang suspended above the floor. But there were also plinths with no column which – though fashioned from marble – had over the centuries developed the semblance of rotting tree stumps. These and carvings of deranged, screaming flowers reeked with a putrid fetor mingling with the cardamom incense that hung heavy in the air. Lesser scents aroused the hackles of more than just the forest hound.

  Passage, chamber, hall or pit, all seemed to run together into one. There was nowhere in this antechamber to hell that they could call safe, so before long they simply stopped where they were. At what was possibly the end of a huge open hall they finally made camp.

  Within the pale radius of Bolldhe’s lantern the united army of invaders was assembled. Standing, squatting or sitting in a rough circle, this company regarded each other with mutual curiosity. In the middle of them sat Gapp, flanked by Shlepp on one side and Englarielle on the other, with Finan behind him. Facing these four were ranged the other humans, staring at their former dogsbody and the unusual company he now kept.

  ‘You’ve obviously been busy during your absence,’ Nibulus said at last. ‘Would you care to introduce us to your new friends?’

  Gapp had picked up very little of the Polg trading tongue that the Tregvans had habitually used with Methuselech, but he was the only link between the two groups and now found himself in the unenviable position of translator. After so many weeks under the domination of Mauglad Yrkeshta, during which time he had been little more than the necromancer’s witless vassal, he was finding it very difficult to think for himself. But Mauglad was destroyed now – Gapp himself had helped him down that road – and he was ‘Mister Radnar’ now. He had not dragged himself from a watery grave in the caves beneath Fron-Wudu for nothing, and the patronizing tone of the Peladane now did as much as his release from the will of the black priest to stir anger in him anew.

  ‘Sure,’ he replied testily. ‘Nibulus, this is Englarielle Rampunculus, king of the army of Cyne-Tregva I’ve enlisted for this campaign. Englarielle, this is Nibulus Wintus, a fat oaf I used to work for.’

  Gapp did not try to translate this for the Vetterym; it had been for his former questmates’ ears only. However, it caused considerably less of a reaction among them than he had hoped. Considering what the Peladane’s group had just been through, there was very little left in the world that could have surprised them. And as for Wintus, he simply gave the boy a rather weary look. If anyone, it was Gapp who was surprised; six weeks previously the Peladane would have swatted his esquire halfway to the ocean for making a remark like that.

  Gapp shrugged and got the further civilities underway. Apart from the leaders of each party, namely Nibulus and Englarielle, he did not bother to introduce anyone by name. He realized that none there would be able to recall any new names, even if they were in a state to care about such things.

  As far as the Tregvans were concerned, Gapp imagined Mauglad had already told Englarielle a bit about the party from Nordwas and their mission, and that would have to suffice. There was no way Gapp could begin to elaborate on what may have already been said. What he urgently needed to do, though, was assure them that these humans were effectively taking over from their friend Seelva, so nothing really had changed – apart from the fact that Xilvafloese, their ex-leader and the sole reason for their being here, now decorated the doorway of Lubang-Nagar in a darker shade of grey.

  ‘This isn’t going to be easy,’ he sighed.

  He looked around at the expectant faces of the Vetters, the Cervulice and even the two Paranduzes (Hwald was having a particularly bad time of it). They were all clearly at a loss. Hardly surprising, Gapp mused, considering their leader had just exploded – and without even bothering to explain why. Having been plunged into a world so far beyond their understanding, now that the progenitor of this whole misadventure – that piece of rotten driftwood that had been keeping their heads above water – was dead, disorientation and fear threatened to shatter their spirit.

  In exasperation, Gapp simply jabbed a finger repeatedly at Nibulus while shouting in Polg, ‘Erjar mycel, Seelva cynen, nosa cynen narru!’ (This big warrior, Methuselech’s leader, now our new leader.)

  That seemed to do the trick. The Tregvans had a new boss, and that was all they needed, or wanted, to know.

  Gapp gradually calmed down a little. There would be the chance to have serious words with his old companions, tell them what had befallen him since their parting, catch up on what they had been doing and maybe work out between them exactly what had happened to Methuselech.

  Nibulus, being Nibulus, told his story first. In a low euphonious voice that he believed lent him the presence of an akynn, the Peladane related everythin
g that had befallen them since Gapp had disappeared down the well in the witch Nym-Cadog’s realm: reaching the town of Myst-Hakel, the fight in the silver mine and the finding of the sword Flametongue, meeting Kuthy, the journey through Eotunlandt, Elfswith and Ceawlin, Melhus Island and finally the Maw. It was an incredible story, in spite of the Peladane’s bombastic narration, one which confirmed Gapp’s anxiety about the pickled people he had seen in the stabbur.

  But there was one thing his former master talked of that had drawn the boy’s ear above all else. And that was the mention of Flametongue.

  Dead snake in a bag, eh? It was only then that he recalled the words Mauglad had spoken in anger outside the woodcutter’s hut: ‘Finwald’s sword must not enter the Maw.’

  He held his tongue for the moment, for he guessed that things would really happen once he let that cat out of the bag. He instead brought them up to date with his own adventures: from the moment he had plunged into the dark freezing waters of Nym’s well to his eventual emergence from the dark freezing waters of the sea cave just below them now. Unlike Nibulus, that reverer of Gwyllch, however, he had no need to employ bardic mellifluence or statesmanlike grandiloquence; the deeds alone were enough to awe his audience, and at long last Gapp Radnar beheld in their eyes something he had awaited for months, years even: respect. Respect, recognition and perhaps even reverence for this young man last seen as only a boy. It was only now, after all that they too had been through, that they were able to appreciate the magnitude of his experiences and wonder that he had survived to be here with them now.

  So they were seven again, and truly it was magnificent. Yet uppermost in their minds was the thought that they had been so nearly the full eight. The subject of Methuselech Xilvafloese, inevitably, came round. Particularly after Gapp’s disturbing revelations.