A Fire in the North

by David Bilsborough

  It was a sacred grove of Erce, the smallest of spaces amid a tangle of green things striving to live and to grow.

  Here, where the blackthorn buds were just beginning to bloom, upon a bank of soft grass, among speedwell, wood sorrel and early bluebells, a single lily grew. With petals of silvered cream immaculacy and fragrance of intoxicating honeyed sweetness, it was a lily of such ephemeral delicacy and evanescent purity that the world, even this hidden glade of sylvan sanctity, seemed too abominably crass a place to merit it.

  Yet here it grew, planted by Wodeman many years ago and tended by generation after generation of priests after him, those Torca to whom he had entrusted the task, handing it down so that the memory of Bolldhe the Earthfriend would never fail, and in the hearts of Torca would be ever revered.

  For the lily was their symbol of a cleansed soul, a prayer of hope for Bolldhe, wherever he was, and also for the land that he had saved from that blackness from the north.

  And behind it, delivered from the black places of the earth in which it had lain forgotten, Bolldhe’s axe was planted. With haft set firmly into the ground, surrounded by a maypole-dance of wood anemones and anchored by the writhing tendrils of blue-trumpeted bindweed, Bolldhe the man – king for a day – was held, whether he liked it or not, in the sacred bosom of Erce, a spirit he had not even known.

  Yet again, Bolldhe would have hated it. But it is probably safe to say that he would, at least, have approved of the axe.

  It was the middle of autumn by the time Finan led the remaining travellers through the tree-gate and into the lamplit haven of Cyne-Tregva. The days had been gloomy and wet, and little of the colour of autumn’s changing could be discerned in that darkest and most alien part of Fron-Wudu. It was dank and bitterly cold, and for weeks all they had known was the ordeal of punishing, numbing travel, stiffening wounds, maddening midges, danger that faced them every day, and fear that robbed them of sleep every night. Now, after the trial that had sapped the exhausted company of any last reserve of spirit they might have possessed, Cyne-Tregva was like an impossible dream finally come true.

  The Tregvans had grown appreciably lighter of mood with each day that had passed, though their spirits had been all but crushed by what had happened. The shadow of memories would never be entirely lifted from their hearts. Nonetheless, they were coming home, returning from a nightmare that none of them could believe had really happened, and though they had left most of their company behind, these at least were alive, and for creatures of the great forest that was all that really mattered. For Nibulus and Wodeman, enticed along every step of the way by Gapp’s stories of this magical place, there was also the added lure of discovery and even a flickering of their old sense of adventure.

  Yen was with them still. She was thin and pale, had a haunted wideness to her eyes and would rarely speak. But like the folk of Cyne-Tregva she was alive, and for that she appeared to be beginning to feel grateful. Of wonder at Cyne-Tregva, though, there simply was not the capacity in her yet. But as for Gapp, despite the harshness of the journey, when the company finally reached the perimeter wall of massive trees and thorn-lashed logs, he hung back and would not enter.

  The last time he had been here, he had been a different person: young, intensely curious and in the full flush of his new-found confidence. Also, more importantly, Englarielle had been alive. And over two score other Vetters, two score Cervulice and poor Hwald. So too, though it seemed strange to think of it, had Methuselech Xilvafloese. In a way, at least. So how could Gapp face this place now, knowing what he and his kind had inflicted upon its sons? How could he bear to meet the gaze – blank, silent and uncomprehending – of the Vetterym when they were told of what had befallen? How could he stand the guilt, heaped on in even greater measure by the forgiveness and hospitality meted out by those few that had survived?

  In truth he could not bear it. So when the company passed within the safety of the tree-gate, Gapp simply remained where he was, his hound at his side.

  Then the gloom darkened yet further, and the sounds that he had heard when first he had passed this way – beetles big enough to roar, ants that could carry off a man, invisible gliders that ghosted through the air – returned. Gapp knew that not even Shlepp would be protection against the predators of this place.

  Within minutes, he had rejoined his companions within the safety of Cyne-Tregva.

  Rest was taken, wounds treated and strength gradually restored. A week in the Vetter town, though the place was subdued by mourning, did much to heal and fortify the men from Nordwas. They wandered among the trees, the walkways, the many wonderful places that had been seen by no man but they, and, despite their own hurts, could still marvel at it all.

  But they too were homesick and longed for an end to this whole episode. Bidding farewell to Radkin, Ted, the other Vetters, the Cervulice and – with a terrible sadness – Finan, they were escorted by guides to the River Folcfreawaru. Here they were ferried by coracle to the southern bank, and from there left to the guidance of Shlepp. For here, in the Valley of Perchtamma-Uinfjoetli, they were just within the boundaries of the forest hound’s ken and, come what may, it was up to him now to get them further along on their journey.

  Yulfric was pleased to see them. Sort of.

  The Gyger was not sure exactly who these strangers from the woods were, but there was a shade of recollection as he looked upon Gapp, and he was in any case greatly relieved to see that Shlepp had returned at last. They stayed with him for a few days, helped around the house and gratefully accepted the quirky hospitality of Heldered the invisible Nisse.

  But it was an odd place, truly it was, and tempers began to unravel very early on. In addition the three men were grimly aware that they still had the rest of the forest to get through. And then the dismal Rainflats. And, worst of all, the Blue Mountains. All this too before winter set in. It was not a pleasant prospect.

  On the day of their departure it came as no surprise to anyone that Shlepp left with Gapp. Anyone, that is, except Yulfric. He was so furious he drove them all out of his home with bellows and blows. Even Heldered’s disapproval was apparent by the eager swinging open of the stockade gates by unseen hands as they were booted out. And how quickly the gates shut behind them.

  But it made little difference. Shlepp and Gapp had become a team, and nothing but death would separate them now.

  The remainder of the journey was lively, though fortunately without a fraction of the troubles they had encountered the first time round.

  Two days after being evicted from the forest giant’s homestead they arrived at Myst-Hakel. Coming from the green shelter of the forest, the Rainflats seemed chill and drear, and the wind from the east cut through them mercilessly. Though never a pleasant place through which to travel, it was now particularly flat, grey and subdued. The only living creatures about at this time of year were the whimbrels, but even they were few and kept out of the wind. Arriving at the town, the travellers were struck by how few people were out and about. Everyone seemed to be indoors, and there was none of the interest in them that had been evident the first time round. Gapp did not know whether to be relieved at this, or slightly disappointed.

  They stayed for two days only, just long enough to rest and make a few purchases. Now that Zhang was dead they had no beast of burden, and none of the company relished the thought of that month or more of travelling it would take them to get home, over marsh, mountain and wilderness, on foot.

  In any case, all that time hiking in full armour had convinced Nibulus that, light as Tengriite was, he was never going to repeat the experience. There was no option but to sell his armour and use the proceeds to purchase some transport. This was done with no small amount of reluctance but also with some surprise; the Peladane had truly never thought he would see the day when he would sell the most wonderful suit of armour in the north, but now it came down to it, he was in a way rather relieved to get shot of it.

  He did, however, make sure he got the best pr
ice possible. Though he knew he would never get even a fiftieth of its true value, he was fortunate that they had arrived in town when they had. For the Tusse blacksmith’s cousin happened to be passing through Myst-Hakel, and he was a member of the mammoth caste of herd giants. So, in exchange for his armour, Nibulus secured a huge woolly mammoth, complete with vast canvas-and-wood palanquin, two months’ supplies of dried food, more winter pelts than they had seen on the entire journey and, as an extra, got the Tusse to throw in a bottle of gin ‘for the woman’.

  As a result of this exchange he and his companions would be able to travel home in relative safety and comfort, while the two herd giants would never have to herd or work iron again for the rest of their lives.

  One other thing only remained to be done at Myst-Hakel. Wodeman had still not recovered from the guilt of his betrayal, but here felt he could do something to make amends. Alone, unarmed and at the mercy of whatever might be lurking down there, he offered himself to Fate and ventured back down the silver mine. All he took with him was the xienne lantern that Gapp had taken from Bolldhe after they had laid him to rest, and with this he headed back down to where they had gone before in search of a very particular item of treasure.

  It was still foul, and a memory of the Afanc leapt out of the darkness and into his mind with each footstep he took, each tap of the Knockers, each drip of water into an icy puddle. Yet still he searched, for there was a duty here that he felt he must fulfil.

  After a while he found it: that treasure that meant more to the peace of his soul than anything else. Bolldhe’s old broadaxe, rusty and wet, lay abandoned in a corner where Finwald had hidden it.

  ‘It’ll make a fine memorial,’ he said to himself as he weighed it in his hands, and then left the mines forever.

  High in the Blue Mountains Gapp perched atop the mammoth, gazing at the immense views around him. Nibulus was sitting in the driver’s seat, casually guiding the huge beast that rattled with pans, pots and barrels of provisions while idly perusing his beloved Chronicle of Gwyllch. Wodeman had decided to join them up top, for once abandoning his customary place at their side on foot, and Yen was up ahead walking the dog.

  Suddenly, Gapp said, ‘Appa was right, you know.’

  ‘About?’ asked Nibulus.

  ‘What he said on the ship that night. It was all bloody useless, wasn’t it? The quest, I mean. How’s it going to look when we get back to Nordwas? What’re you going to tell the people there, eh? Or your father, come to that? That the whole business could’ve been achieved by simply smashing Flametongue when we first got it, like I said back on the ship. Are you going to tell them that?’

  ‘Of course not!’ Nibulus snorted, chuckling at the boy’s stupidity. ‘We’re heroes! Why would we want to start telling the truth?’

  ‘But we’re not,’ the boy reminded him. ‘As Appa pointed out, we’re the biggest idiots in the world. We—’

  ‘Gapp Radnar,’ Nibulus cut in with an upraised hand, ‘listen to me. In a few weeks’ time we’re going to arrive home after having successfully completed a quest. That much is true, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Also, we’ve killed things, we’ve picked up a good few war wounds to show off to the girls, we’re going to make a heroes’ return on this magnificent beast here . . . so who cares? As long as the citizens are happy, don’t bother thinking too hard about it. Just take the money, the fame and the women and forget about irrelevancies like “why?”. We’re heroes ’cause we’ve won, and that’s all. Believe me, son, don’t knock it. We’ve earned it.’

  The melancholy would not leave Gapp, however. But he had to admit Nibulus was right. We’re just ordinary men, he pondered, doing what we do, what we can do, without ever really knowing or even caring why. People need heroes, and that’s just what we’re giving them.

  Cuna, had he been there, would have smiled.

  Gapp tried to picture himself arriving back at Nordwas: the grand triumphal parade, the mammoth; the girls, his friends, his family, all staring in amazement at him. He spent hours imagining this, feeding his fantasy, nurturing it, playing it over and over in his head. And then a thought occurred to him.

  ‘Nibulus, would you say I was handsome enough to be a hero?’

  The Peladane laughed out loud. ‘Don’t be a prat. Of course not! Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because the heroes of legend are always handsome. That’s the rule. Look at that book of yours, the way Gwyllch describes the heroes. They’re always so perfect. Never a sore or even a grey tooth among ’em. Why is that, d’you think?’

  ‘Maybe it’s the deed that makes them beautiful,’ Wodeman said. ‘Don’t you think?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Gapp replied thoughtfully. ‘I’m not sure what I feel at all. The thing is, I had a dream about it last night . . .’

  ‘Ah,’ said the shaman, leaning closer, ‘my speciality. Go on.’

  ‘Remember Paulus? Well, I was in this dark place, see, lost and alone. Then suddenly I heard a click, and when I looked up I could see Paulus looking at me from behind this tiny shutter or something. Then it seemed like the dark wasn’t the dark of underground, but of night, and I was in a graveyard, and Paulus was in a tomb, looking out of it through this little shutter. Looking at me. He seemed to be trying to call out, to tell me something, maybe to say sorry or to explain something, I’m not sure. Well, the whole place began to smell like the Maw, and I didn’t want to hang around . . . But the thing that struck me was that, even though he was in his grave, far from being even more rotten, he actually looked better. I could see his bad eye and bad skin were still there, unchanged, yet . . . it was still the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen.’

  Both Wodeman and Nibulus were silent for a long time. Eventually the Peladane shrugged and said by way of reply, ‘Perhaps it just means the maggots left his face alone after he died. Even they have their limits.’

  Five weeks after leaving Myst-Hakel the six of them – Nibulus, Gapp, Wodeman, Yen, Shlepp and the mammoth – finally reached Nordwas.

  The heroes’ return. This thought had, for most of the frigid days on the lonely road, kept them warm, kept them going. But the closer they came to the town, the more perplexed they became. It was a freezing day hazed blue with icy fog, and hardly a soul was abroad despite their having sent word on ahead at every village on the way. There were no other travellers upon the road, no farmers working in the frozen fields, and when they finally drew near to the smoky cluster of wattle-and-daub shacks crowding against the stockade wall, not one of the mean denizens that huddled within so much as poked his head through a door-hanging to see what these elephantine footfalls were that pounded the frozen earth outside.

  Nor even when they passed through the gates was there anyone to meet them. No cheering waving crowds lined the streets to welcome the returning heroes; no one marvelled at the beast they rode; no one was about at all, save a pair of grubby children who tried to sell them toffee apples.

  ‘Home,’ said Nibulus, slightly numb.

  ‘Home,’ repeated Gapp, equally numb.

  Wodeman said nothing.

  The first familiar face they came across was a valet of Wintus Hall, one of those big-fingered servants who had prised Nibulus and his cohorts from their warm flatulent stalls on the morning of their departure. He looked uncertainly at the mammoth for a moment, then noticed who it was that sat atop it.

  ‘Oh hello,’ he called out. ‘You’re back.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, did you kill him then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh good. Well, see you later then.’

  ‘Yes.’

  They continued down the same narrow lane, then turned into Pump Street. From one of the windows came the wonderful smell of bacon, eggs, black pudding and beef sausages, overlaid strongly with the heaven-scent aroma of fresh coffee. It was late-morning farmers’ breakfast at the Chase, and it was at that moment, only at that moment, that the three knew for sure they were at last,
truly, home.

  Parking their beast outside, the three men, one woman and dog swung the doors wide and entered the steamy comfort of the inn. For a moment they just stood there, breathing in the warmth, the steam, the noise and the smell, almost as though they were tundra-dwelling primitives experiencing its delights for the first time. It was quite overwhelming, and Gapp almost passed out from joy.

  Yet, for all their dramatic entrance, only one or two heads looked up, and then only for a second or two before returning to the serious task at hand, namely that of seeing just how much breakfast they could squeeze down their gullets without rupturing their innards.

  Nibulus, Gapp, Wodeman, Yen and Shlepp glanced at each other in turn. Then they shrugged, got themselves a table, and the Peladane politely shoved his way through the throng at the bar to order the biggest, hottest and greasiest breakfast his remaining zibelines could buy.

  If the citizens of Nordwas are going to ignore us, he thought, then that’s exactly what we’re going to do to them.

  By a strange coincidence they found that the beef in the sausages had come from Marla, slaughtered only seven days previously. Gapp, remembering something, put his hand into his pocket and drew forth the sprig of weba that Appa had given him at their parting. He held it up for all to see, said a silent prayer, then crushed the dried leaves and ceremonially garnished the sausages with it.

  ‘It’s what he would have wanted,’ he explained as the others looked on doubtfully.

  ‘Oy, Radnar!’ a voice suddenly called from one corner of the room. They turned to look past the ranks of gorging farmers towards a small table at which sat four of Gapp’s friends, the very same gang as had come to say farewell to him almost six months previously, in their gawky and uniquely teenage way.