by Fisher, Jude
‘A ship, you say?’ Then he laughed, a huge sound which set the pale creatures in the shadows to wheeling and flapping again. ‘Ah, the naivety of men. Charming, so charming.’ He caught Fent by the arm and propelled him forward. ‘Go to your father, my boy,’ he whispered, and as if set in motion by the turn of a key, Fent marched across the floor of the Great Hall with leaden legs and came to a halt in front of Aran Aranson. There, he issued no word of greeting, indeed gave no sign of recognition of either of the men who stood watching him, their eyes as round as plates.
‘As you can see,’ the Master said. ‘I have restored him, as well as I can, for now, at least.’
Aran tore his gaze away from his miraculously restored son and stared at the mage in consternation. Had the old man heard him planning his death? Surely he must have done, for he was smiling still, and it was not a smile to gladden the heart.
‘May I see that?’ the Master asked, inclining his head towards the parchment in Aran’s hand.
Aran looked down guiltily, then back at the sorcerer, his panic rising.
The old man reached out a hand, flexed his fingers, and as if magically summoned, Aran Aranson found himself crossing the room, his hand outstretched before him, the map lying curled, exposed and naked on his palm. He wanted to clutch the parchment into a ball, to hide it beneath his clothing, to make it disappear. But his hand remained strangely unwilling to do his bidding, as if it now belonged to another master than the man to whom it was attached. Two strides away from the mage he halted, then watched in appalled wonder as the map rose into the air and floated into the grasp of the old man. Immediately, despair set in. He was lost; all was lost. It had all been such a waste, the entire enterprise – the kidnap of the shipmaker, the building of the Long Serpent, the selection of its crew, the disastrous voyage and the treacherous trek across the ice – all seemed no more than a sequence of follies, follies which had whipped up a maelstrom of madness and taken the lives of many good men. For the sake of sheer greed, he had lost what he held dear: his family, his steading, his reputation. He was a broken man. For the first time in his life, Aran Aranson felt the most profound shame. He hung his head and wept.
For his part, the Master took no notice of this display of emotion. He did not even bother to look at the map a second time, but merely held it to his nose and sniffed the parchment as if its scent brought him comfort.‘Ah,’ he sighed. ‘Squid ink mixed with cat’s urine. Bëte, ah Bëte, my dear, I shall have you back yet.’
Then he tore the precious chart into tiny pieces and, uttering a single word of power over them, dissolved the fragments into thin air.
‘Now,’ he declared in a voice which permitted no objection, ‘come with me.’
They followed the Master out of the Great Hall, the Giant, the Madman and the Fool, their feet obedient only to his word. He led them down corridors embedded with precious stones and seamed with pyrites which glittered its tawdry seductive gold and they saw nothing of it, for he wished it not; he led them up stairways carved into the ice, up and up and up until their breath filled the air with clouds of steam and their lungs protested. But no sound did they utter, for it was not his will that they should.
At last they surmounted the hundred and sixty-eighth step, and there an intricately carved door stood closed before them. On the Master’s word of command, the door swung open without a creak. And now they could not help but cry out, for the light hurt their eyes, so bright it was, so radiant and many-coloured.
‘Behold the world!’
One spell had lifted; but it seemed another had fallen over them. At first, they had no idea of what they were looking at: it was too strange, too unexpected, too hard to fathom. Then, one by one they were able to descry a huge oval bowl set upon a plinth of ice, bathed in ever-changing light. Above it, the centre of the roof lay open to the grey arctic skies, and this was where much of the light was sourced. But all around, amidst a spider’s web of chains and levers and pulleys were crystals great and small, some thinned by some unimaginable force to slivers as long as a man’s arm, yet only as thick as his smallest finger; some whole and polished to facets so that fractured light from them rebounded from the ice, the other crystals, the surface of the bowl, the men’s faces. Aran Aranson stepped boldly up to the plinth, and Urse followed, dragging the oddly languid Fent in his wake. There, they gazed into the bowl, and were mightily confused by the vista offered therein. It appeared to be a swathe of dark ocean, jammed with frazil ice which was intermittently lifted and let fall by invisible rollers, so that the entire surface rose and fell, undulating like some great sleeping beast. In the far left of the scene, a broken ship lay on its side, wedged amidst the ice. It was not the Long Serpent, which had gone to its demise beneath just such dark waves of ice, but a similar vessel; even so, a chill of memory and recognition ran through their bones at the very sight of it. The Master let them dwell on that sorry image for a few more seconds, then he laid hold of a lever, adjusted the angle of a large crystal, and the scene veered crazily, racing through colours like seasons flowing one into another and out the other side; and then suddenly where there had been frozen sea, now there was another landscape entirely – an expanse of ochre stretching as far as could be seen. This, too, seemed full of waves, for it was striated with long curving lines, great crescents and arcs, elegant as birds’ wings. Aran frowned. He had never seen anything like it.
Smiling, the Master turned another handle and the focus shifted, closing fast, diving vertiginously from crow’s view to ant’s. ‘It’s sand . . .’ breathed Urse One-Ear, amazed. ‘Fields of sand.’
Just like a sea, Aran thought, remembering travellers’ tales of such, tales dismissed as fable, of thousands of miles of wasteland so parched that a man lost there would die in a single day under the pitiless eye of the sun, if he had not luck or aid.
Fent Aranson simply stared at this inimical place unblinking and said not a word.
‘They call it the Bone Quarter now,’ the old man mused. ‘Though I remember when it was a fair land of tall reeds and gentle rivers frequented by ibis and dove.’
Aran and Urse could make nothing of this statement. Instead they watched, amazed, as he turned the levers again and brought another vista crashing into view. A black volcano ascended into glowering red clouds, indeed, was making those very clouds, belching out gouts of cinder and glowing ash as if it would burn up the whole world. None of them had ever seen such a thing in their lives. They had heard the word ‘fire-mountain’ from the tales that the old folk told on winter nights, for this was how Elda had come into being according to one legend of the North: a great sea of fire had covered all the surface of the world, islands and continents had formed from the shooting cinders as they cooled; and the First Men – their most distant ancestors – had been ejected in spurts and falls out of the flaming depths. But it was hard to give credit to such tales; for an equal and opposite myth about the birth of Elda had it that Umla, the Great Mother – who was, according to varying versions, either a vast milch-cow or a huge cat – had given birth to a single offspring which she called Elda and which at first seemed no more than a formless lump until the Great Mother had licked it into shape, thus making the mountain ridges and the islands, the rivers and the seas, and had poured herself into the heart of the new world, and from that inner being had poured forth all the birds and animals, the men and the women so that Elda would have them to love and care for.
There did not seem much love involved in the creation of the scene before their eyes; indeed, it appeared a place inimical to all life: for what creature could breathe air filled with burning fragments and charged with noxious gases? What bird could fly amidst flaming clouds? What beast could forage for nourishment on its burning, barren slopes? To Aran Aranson it seemed the antithesis of life, this mountain of fire: it seemed the location where the world would draw to a terrible close, rather than the source whence life had come.
‘Where is this place?’ he asked the mage fearfully.<
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The Master, without taking his eyes from the hellish scene before them said nothing for many long moments. Then he swung the levers once more and plunged the bowl of light into vivid turmoil. ‘That place is known as the Red Peak,’ he said softly. ‘And one of you will be going there as your task.’
‘Task?’ said Aran sharply. ‘What task?’
The old man smiled, though there was no warmth in it. ‘You did not think I had brought you to my Sanctuary out of the goodness of my heart?’
Urse and Aran exchanged stricken glances. ‘We thought . . . we . . .’ the big man started, before stuttering to a halt.
‘We thought you had taken pity on our plight,’ Aran Aranson finished for him.
The mage’s smile widened, revealing long yellow teeth amidst the copious beard.‘Pity,’ he mused.‘Ah, I have almost forgotten the meaning of the word. ‘ “Pity stayed his hand” – is that not what one of the old myths tells us? When the hero strikes down the beast and sees the fear in the creature’s eyes and recognises that it has a soul which matches his own and cannot bring himself to make the killing stroke?’
Aran frowned. He knew the tale – what child did not? For Sur had spared the life of the great dragon known as the Long Serpent, and it had finally repaid his compassion with treachery, rising up out of the waters of the Northern Ocean a year later to overturn his ship and kill his crew. It was a tale passed down from generation to generation and, like the story of the King and the Black Mountain trolls, it had a maxim at its heart: deal with your problems today, for if left they will only get larger.
‘It was not pity which brought you here,’ the mage told him, ‘but greed, as well you know,’ and his eyes were flinty. ‘But your greed shall be rewarded with treasures beyond any you imagine, if only you will pay my price.’
And before the men could say a word, the Master stepped up to Urse One-Ear and passed his hand across Urse’s forehead. The giant swayed where he stood. Then the mage muttered a string of sounds which Aran Aranson could make no sense of – except for the word ‘bet’ which was repeated over and over; and this word he remembered he had heard the old man utter before, though he knew not what it meant. He watched Urse’s face contort itself as if he was suddenly terrified; but when the mage tapped him lightly on the temples, his eyes were as clear and unafraid as they had always been, and he seemed quite unchanged.
‘You have your task, my Giant,’ the Master said in a satisfied tone.
In response, Urse nodded slowly. ‘I have my task,’ he said, and his voice was not his own, but leaden and inflectionless.
Aran stared at his shipmate in horror, then at the old man. ‘What have you done to him?’ he cried accusingly.
‘Done?’ The Master laughed. ‘I have given him purpose where there was none before. It is my gift to him: the greatest gift any man can receive. The Giant now has a reason to live, and to die. He should be grateful to me: for he will become a legend now in his own right.’
The Master turned to Aran Aranson. ‘And now it is your turn.’
The dark man backed away from him, his grey eyes sparking fear. ‘Do not touch me, nor expect me to accept this “gift”!’ Aran backed towards the door. ‘I will take my chance with the arctic wilds and leave this place empty-handed rather than take any task of yours!’
The door behind him swung suddenly closed with a soft thud, and when he turned to grab at the handle, he found there was none; nor indeed any door.
The Master smiled and wiped his brow. ‘This magic is an exhausting thing sometimes,’ he said. ‘Let me show you something in the glass before we proceed further. I would not wish to damage you through lack of care or strength.’ And he led an unresisting Aran Aranson back to the bowl of light and twisted the levers once more.
Clouds and landscape sped past below them. Buildings of stone loomed up and veered away; hillsides dotted with cattle; a hundred half-made ships bobbed in a shallow anchorage. Aran glimpsed women running from soldiers bearing flaming torches, a town square packed with an avid crowd; men marching across rough terrain. He saw carts full of weaponry trailing one another along paved southern roadways, he saw a monstrous creature rising up out of a stormy ocean then disappearing from view so fast that he was not able to ask for a closer view; then more sea, waves breaking on jagged reefs, a swirl of gulls over the bays and headlands of a familiar coastline. There was a sudden blurring as the Master swung the crystals swiftly, and then suddenly there was Halbo, the sentinel pillars rising grimly from a choppy sea and a towering castle of granite shining pink and grey in a setting sun.
‘Ah,’ breathed the mage, ‘now we shall have her.’
He adjusted the viewing crystals minutely until the scene hovered like a bird’s eye view of Eyra’s capital. People were milling about the town below the castle’s walls, laying in stores it seemed, for dozens of carts were progressing to the gates laden high with provisions, whilst on the hill on the landward side other carts were coming out empty. Down at the docks there was a ferment of activity. Men scurried here and there, unloading cargoes from barges, piling up shipments on the quayside, then transferring them to the waiting carts; mending sails, coiling lines, stacking weaponry. Hundreds of ships were arrayed in the harbour beyond, riding safe at anchor, jostling one another like a flock of seabirds sheltering from a storm.
‘War,’ breathed the mage. ‘A time of violence and great opportunity.’
Now he brought the vista in closer. On top of the castle lay a garden which had remained green, even in the midst of winter. And in the middle of that green was a pale fire: a woman in white, her silver-blonde hair spilling down her back like a waterfall. When she turned he felt his heart still and then break into a swift and ragged rhythm. In her arms she held a child, a small black-headed thing wrapped in a scarlet shawl, mouth stretched in a soundless howl. Behind her stood a man – King Ravn Asharson – his long black hair blowing in the wind, a fond smile etched on his handsome face as he took the child from his nomad-wife’s arms and rocked it to apparent silence.
‘What?’ cried the Master.‘That cannot be. It is most unnatural, uncanny, impossible . . .’
A cloud fell between them and the woman, allowing Aran to drag his eyes from the scene.
‘Surely it is the most natural thing in the world,’ he said, staring at the mage.
‘Indeed,’ said the Master shortly, ‘it is not.’
He reached abruptly across the space between them and grasped Aran by the forehead, his long bony fingers spanning the flesh between hairline and brow.
Wrenching himself away, Aran cried out. ‘No! I will do her no harm. Not for you, or any other—’
The Master steadied himself against the bowl. ‘Believe me,’ he said vehemently, ‘you will do as you are bidden, or you will die here, the most painful death I can devise: and I know many ways to make a man suffer.’
‘Nothing you can do to me can be worse than what I have already done to myself.’
The Master raised an eyebrow. This one would need to have his spirit broken before he would be the useful tool he required. With apparent nonchalance he waved a hand.
‘Have it your way, for now. Let me show you a little of what I can do, and maybe then you will change your mind about resisting me.’ Then he turned to the silent, volition-less creature which was Fent Aranson. ‘You will go to the Red Peak,’ he told him, enunciating each word with great care. ‘You will travel south through all of Istria with my protection upon you until you come to the Dragon’s Backbone. Then you must find the mountain of fire. Within it lies my enemy.’ He closed his eyes. ‘He has been there for a very long time. More than three hundred years, and I feel his strength returning. If he breaks free, nothing can save me. You are the key.’
Fent’s eyes focused for the first time, and settled on the mage’s face. He smiled: a beatific smile as of one blessed with a divine secret.
‘I am the Madman,’ he said. ‘I am the key.’
‘You are bound to my
service. I have a great task for you.’
‘Bound to service . . . a great task . . .’
‘Repeat after me,’ the Master said, holding his gaze intently. ‘The Madman must find the Warrior.’
Fent’s eyes gleamed with an inner light. ‘The Madman must find the Warrior,’ he repeated.
‘And kill him.’
‘And kill him.’
‘Now give me your injured arm.’
Slowly, Fent raised his truncated limb and extended its charred stump towards the mage. The Master regarded the ruined arm sorrowfully. ‘I am sorry that my snowbear had to take your hand; but the one I shall give you now will be stronger by far.’ Taking the burned end in his own grip, he summoned all his strength and uttered three words of command. At once, the air filled with buzzing. Down from the eaves came a swarm of translucent creatures: not bats, it seemed, nor any other recognisable beast. Bigger than bees they were, and smaller than birds, but beyond that it was impossible to make out any detail, since they moved so swiftly and so constantly around the site of the injury. Like spiders, they wove a glistening web: but no gossamer was this, for what they spun appeared to be strands of a substance that gleamed like silver or moonlight on water.
A fierce light filled the icy tower room, a light which was neither white nor blue but some painful aspect between these two, and Aran had to shield his eyes from the glare. As the buzzing grew louder, he held his head, trying to shut out the noise. Turning, he found Urse One-Ear already hunkered down on the floor, whimpering like a tortured animal. The silence, when it fell, seemed deafening, as if all the sound in the world had been sucked into a sudden void. Vivid red after-images chased each other across Aran Aranson’s eyes. Even with the wicked light fled away, it took him several seconds to focus.
A dark figure stood before him. He knew in the logical part of his mind that it must be his son: his youngest boy, twin Katla’s, who had gone to the bad in so many ways, yet remained always Fent; but at the same time it clearly was not. He squeezed his eyes shut, to allow the image to dispel, as if this new apparition was itself an after-effect of the mage’s spell, some chancy trick of the light. But when he opened them again, the figure was still there, as unnerving as ever. He quailed before it, suddenly afraid.
