by Paul Kearney
Guillamon rose. ‘They can wait. The Teller here needs rest from your voice, Ratagan, and from our arguments. We will leave him to his nurse.’ He gave a surprisingly bright smile to Madra.
They left, and Isay remained alone by the door. Riven caught his eye.
‘Thanks, Isay.’
‘I did my duty,’ the Myrcan said, ‘and reminded my people of theirs. Your life is in my care. Our world is in yours. Ward it well as I would ward you, and I shall be content.’ He went to take his usual post outside the door.
Riven lay still, his head throbbing and Madra warm beside him. He heard the wind in the rafters and watched the snow whirl outside. Madra went to build up the fire. He watched her tuck an unruly lock of hair behind her ear as she knelt at the hearth, and was pelted with a score of remembered images. A dark-haired girl with firelight on her face, the smell of turf burning on a winter night, the sound of the sea raging at the shore in a fury of storm.
Winter. It was winter back on Skye; and now that winter was here, in Minginish. The curtain which divided them was wearing thin. Memory and imagination were grappling at each other’s throats, and these people would lose if he lay here much longer. Of that he was sure.
‘RATAGAN AND I will be coming with you, of course,’ said Bicker, ‘and Isay intends to watch over you. As we decided earlier, Tagan will join us, for his is the best woodcraft in the Dale; and Luib has agreed to come. He has given over the training to Druim and Unish. As Isay said, I think he wants to see the mountains around his homeland once again. I think also that three other Hearthwares shall come, in case we need to fight our way out of some tight spot. Rimir, Corrary and Darmid have volunteered. They were on the ramparts with you during the battle. That makes nine, which I reckon is enough. Don’t you?’
‘Seems fine,’ Riven answered him noncommittally, though he was fidgeting with restlessness. ‘What about mounts?’
‘We shall have the best in the Dale, and two pack mules for extra food and gear, since we want to travel swiftly. Winter gear is being readied at the moment, but it will be hard, all the same, travelling in such weather.’
Riven nodded. The fire flickered about the walls of the room, but the wind was howling outside, lashing snow against the window and darkening the afternoon. Ratagan sprawled in a chair, his long legs crossed in front of him. His eyes were lost in the fire.
Bicker nudged him. ‘You are very quiet, my hale and hearty friend.’
‘I am already in mourning,’ the big man replied. ‘For the dearth of beer which I foresee on this trip.’
Bicker chuckled. ‘Do not be so quick to grieve. There are towns and cities along our route which boast the best ale houses in the land, and whilst we cannot linger, we can, I am sure, find the time to slake a thirst or two that the ice and snow have worked up in us.’
Ratagan brightened immediately. ‘I had forgotten that, in my ignorance. What it is to be well-travelled!’ He stood up, his vast frame reaching to the ceiling. ‘I shall miss warm hearths, warm beds and willing wenches before long, I do not doubt; but to deprive a man of his beer, that is true hardship.’ He slapped Bicker on the back, staggering him, then turned to Riven. ‘The head is up to it, then?’
‘It’ll do.’ Then Riven asked the question that had been gnawing at him for the last day: ‘What about Murtach?’
Ratagan’s face clouded. ‘He stays in the Rorim, or at Carnach Rorim, where he is going after Ringill. He will not be coming with us.’
‘Do I still make him unsure of where he is putting his feet?’
‘Something like that,’ Ratagan said. ‘Murtach has always been a deep one, trusting no counsel but his own. He thinks you will find nothing in the mountains but stone and snow. He wants you sent back to your own world.’
‘And you?’
The big man looked at him. ‘I told you once before what I believe in, Michael Riven. I believe in friendship, also. If you believe that you can aid this world by standing on your head, then I will hold your ankles for you. It seems to me you have earned a little of our trust—while Murtach—’
‘Trusts you about as far as he could spit,’ Bicker finished.
‘And he has always... liked... Madra,’ Ratagan said.
Bicker got up. ‘We will leave you to get some sleep. You will need all the strength you can muster on this journey.’
When he had gone out, Ratagan lingered a moment. ‘Men do stupid things,’ he said quietly, ‘without ever considering them stupid. But often such things cannot be helped. We all fail in the end, Riven. It’s making a game of it before we go down that matters. I know. Regret is the bile of life.’ And he smiled a wrecked smile. ‘Murtach has never really failed, so he does not know such things happen.’ Then he left, wishing Riven a good night, and a better morning.
TWO DAYS LATER they were ready to leave, and sat on their horses in the square before the Manse. There was still a smell of burning in the air, and around them the blackened shells of buildings were stark under a covering of snow. Groups of men had been working ceaselessly since the battle to tear them down and salvage what they could of their contents. The cobbles were littered with pieces of burnt wood.
My fault, Riven thought helplessly. Everywhere he went in this land, destruction followed. Perhaps Bragad had been right. Perhaps it was he who was truly destroying this place. But Bragad was dead. He wondered if Hugh was sitting in his office, watching the traffic outside and smoking his foul little cigarettes. And had he felt anything as his twin was slain here? Best not to dwell on it.
The snow had stopped falling and the skies were clear, but a bitter wind winnowed the Dale and they pulled their thick winter garments about their faces. The horses nosed patiently at the ground as they waited.
Riven searched for Madra. He had not seen her all day and badly wanted to say goodbye, but there was no sign of her in the crowd that had gathered to see them off. The Warbutt had not come down from his tower to wish his son farewell, and Bicker was grim and silent with his cloak held up around his mouth and ice crystals forming on it where his breath froze.
Ratagan was like a great bear, and he rode something approaching a cart horse. There was rime on his beard, making him appear grizzled and old.
The other members of the party, Myrcans and Hearthwares all, were similarly dressed, bundled in layers of wool and sheepskins, wrapped in cloaks of double thickness, with large saddlebags behind them. Two of the Hearthwares, Darmid and Corrary, led the two pack mules. Somewhere in those packs were the clothes Riven had entered Minginish with, though only Bicker knew that he had brought them along.
Guillamon stepped out of the Manse; he was grey and brittle in the cold, but his eyes were flashing brighter than the hard sky. Udairn was beside him, seeming younger than his son, and his wife Ethyrra was on his arm, looking like a frostbitten starling. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but the set of her mouth was as severe as that of a judge. Ratagan did not seek to meet her eyes.
Mira was there also, forlorn in the snowy courtyard as she contemplated Bicker leaving her yet again. The dark man had embraced her before he mounted, and whispered something no one else could hear. Now she stared at him as though she would never see him again.
‘Better weather,’ Guillamon was saying, eyeing the sky. He surveyed the company critically. ‘Forgotten anything?’
‘We have enough for three weeks’ travel,’ Bicker said. ‘That will take us to the cities where we can buy more. We will make it easily, if the weather is kind to us.’
Guillamon turned to Riven and offered his hand. Riven took it without speaking.
‘I hope you find peace,’ was all the grey man said, before releasing his grip and stepping back. ‘The blessings of the land be upon you. May the way be kind and journey’s end what you hope it to be. Farewell.’ He lifted one hand in salute, and the household copied him. Riven saw Colban there, smiling uncertainly; Dunan, Ord and others whose faces he knew. But Madra was not there. He kicked his horse with a small, angry sense of mourn
ing and followed Bicker as they made their way out of the square to the gates of the Rorim; felt the wind rasp his face as they left behind the shelter of the buildings. Then they were in the Circle, and the Dale opened out before them in a vast, dazzling whiteness, powdery snow blowing in clouds off the summits of the hills. He stared at the icebound heights, remembering other mountains. He was following a shadow, but now he had an idea about where it was leading him.
Bicker was conferring with Tagan about the way to the north. They agreed over something, and Tagan rejoined his Hearthware comrades. Bicker led, and after him came Ratagan and Riven, Isay and Luib, then Tagan and Rimir and finally Darmid and Corrary leading the pack mules. The company buried their noses in their cloaks as their horses plodded through the hock-deep snow and the wind tore at their hair. They had soon left the Circle behind and were climbing steadily into the hills to the north, their horses’ hoofs turning stones underneath the snow, straining on the steeper parts. Riven looked for a path, but could discern none through the snow and the frozen boulders.
The wind grew stronger as they rode higher. The rocks began to assume a mantle of translucent ice that dripped in grey icicles from overhangs. Drifts appeared, gathered up against sheer slopes and the larger boulders, and the snow blew across the hillside like smoke, coating themselves and their mounts with white and frosting their eyebrows. Riven wriggled his toes inside his boots in an effort to keep them from going numb.
The hills levelled out as they reached the crests, and they could see a vast, rolling country expanding blindingly far northwards; a sea of white, frozen breakers, tumbling into an unknown shore under a clear sky. The wind whipped at their cloaks and the horses kept their eyes half-shut against it. Riven was already thinking of bright hearths and warm beds as they made their way along the summits, following Bicker in single file now, their mounts’ hoofs throwing up bobbles of snow that were swept away into the air as quickly as they were kicked up.
They halted for a short time near midafternoon to rest the horses. They had to break away encrusted ice from the beast’s muzzles and try to rub warmth into them in the lee of a blunt hill. They ate meat and bread that was hardened by the cold, but Bicker would not allow them to eat snow. Their water was unfrozen, hung in skins from the saddle pommels where the warmth of the horses’ bodies would keep it liquid. They could light no fire, and Ratagan prophesied gloomily that their camp that night would be cheerless. They did not remain long, for the cold soon had them hopping about, and the journey was resumed. Riven wondered if it would be like this for the next six weeks, and wiped his nose, thinking of the dark girl barefoot in the snows. But when he tried to picture her face, all he could see was Madra, and the grave eyes under the dark brows.
The day drew on, and Tagan scouted ahead to look for a possible camping site. The tracker had ridden ahead more than once during the day, and to the rear and flanks also, though Riven could not imagine them being followed in cold such as this. They finally halted in a rough copse of thorn that had lopsided boulders scattered about it and was sheltered from the wind by the long shoulder of a hill. Ratagan set himself to starting a fire whilst the rest rubbed down the horses and searched for firewood. There was much swearing, but the big man finally had a leaf of flame springing up to lick around the dried heather curls from the tinder sack. When they had caught, the less-dry fuel was used, and the fire grew, much to the company’s relief. They set out their bedrolls and crouched round the flames, except for the unfortunate Rimir, who had first watch.
‘How far have we covered today?’ Ratagan asked with a stiff-faced yawn.
‘Not far,’ Bicker replied, throwing more sticks on the fire. ‘The country is less broken farther on, so we should make better time tomorrow and be out of the hills the day after that.’
‘And then what?’ Riven asked.
‘And then the Great Vale, with the Great River, which we must follow north to Talisker.’
‘A long way,’ Ratagan said, and yawned again. ‘Tagan thinks we are being followed.’ They looked at him, then at the tracker where he squatted in his sheepskins, with his brown hand tugging at his beard.
‘What, or who, by?’ Corrary demanded, the fire catching glints in his red hair.
Tagan shrugged. ‘I know not for sure. But there is something in the hills behind us, I am certain. I can feel the eyes in my back.’
‘Maybe we should double back and ambush them,’ Darmid suggested. His red hair mirrored his brother’s.
Tagan shook his head. ‘At the moment it is only a feeling of mine; a hunter’s suspicion. Let me be more certain before we go trekking over ground we have already covered.’
‘Sound wisdom,’ Bicker said. ‘I don’t want to waste any more time if I can help it.’ He nudged a steaming pot nearer the fire. ‘But if all the Rime Giants ever spawned were after me, I would still sit here, for I need some hot food in me to fight the ice in my bones.’
They shared out the thick broth and dipped their bread in it, licking their fingers. Riven began to feel his ears and toes thaw out.
‘And this is summer,’ he muttered.
When they had finished eating, they lay unsleeping though well-wrapped before the fire and listened to the mournful wind. The horses stirred restlessly and the limbs of the thorns wriggled. The cold of the ground slowly seeped through Riven’s bedroll to chill his back, and he edged closer to the fire, sick of the aches in his bones and counting out in his mind the hours before he had to go on watch. He was tired, but sleep refused to come. The cold held it at bay despite the glow of the flames on his face.
But sleep came unawares, for he was woken by Luib in the dark, and told by the peppery old Myrcan that it was his watch, and that Corrary was on after him. Riven struggled out of the blankets and the cold ate into him at once. He shivered as he buckled on his sword and took up his post, hating the chill darkness and the loneliness. But the wind had dropped, and he could see the stars.
He stamped up and down at the limit of the firelight and listened to the silence of the hills.
And heard the crunch of brittle snow, out in the darkness.
Not wolves, this time.
A figure approached him with its arms wrapped around its chest. It was bundled in furs and wore high boots. He drew his sword and watched it come closer. It moved stiffly, and yet there was something familiar there. He saw eyes, and then the cloak was thrown away from the face and he could see that it was her, blue-lipped with cold, reaching for him. She half-fell into his arms, and his sword slid to the ground.
‘Mother of God! Madra, what are you doing here?’
She was shivering against him, and he helped her back to the fire and bundled her in his own bedroll; but she kept her arms about him.
‘Hold me,’ she whispered, and he tried to share his warmth, to stop her quivering. At last her clutch on him became less desperate and her shivers less violent. He looked at her in the light of the fire. No one else had woken.
‘You followed us,’ he whispered.
She nodded. ‘I stole a horse and other things, and trailed you through the hills from a distance.’
‘But why, damn it?’
‘I wanted to come with you, to go with you to the mountains.’
‘You crazy kid. We’ll have to return to the Rorim with you now.’
‘No.’ Her eyes were blazing, but her voice was low. ‘I’m not going back. I’d only set out again—and again—so you will have to let me come.’
‘I think we must leave that up to Bicker. Have you any idea how long this journey is?’
‘Have you? You know less about it than I do.’
He was silent in the face of her persistence, partly because he wanted to lose.
‘Where is your horse?’ he asked at last.
‘Round the side of the hill. I’d best go and fetch him soon, for he is hobbled and there may be wolves about.’
‘No. I will wake up Corrary in a minute. He can do it. You try and get warm.’
&
nbsp; ‘I am warm,’ she replied, with the hint of a smile.
IN THE MORNING, Bicker was ill-tempered when he was told of the latest addition to the company, but Ratagan was pleased. They argued for a while. Tagan was glad his suspicions had been vindicated. The Myrcans were inscrutable and the Hearthwares dubious, but when they finally set out again, there were ten in the company, and Riven had a new companion riding at his side. Bicker muttered to himself as he rode in front, but they made better time, for the wind had not risen and the sun was almost warm. They were able to let their cloaks drop from their faces and enjoy the view. The horses began to steam in the sunlit air.
Ratagan raised his face to the sun. ‘This is more like travelling weather. If only it holds for a while.’
‘We begin descending into the Vale tomorrow,’ Bicker called from ahead. ‘The weather should be milder there, with any luck, and the going will be easier.’
‘And there may even be an ale house to brighten our way,’ Ratagan added. He hummed to himself as they continued northwards.
The attack was so sudden that Riven had not even time to be afraid. His stomach jumped as grey shapes poured from behind the boulders ahead and loped towards them. Bicker’s horse reared, and he shouted, ‘Grypesh!’ Then they were among them, milling about the horses, and the terrified animals were bucking and screaming and it was all Riven could do to stay mounted. Luib and Isay were the first to dismount, and Riven heard the familiar hiss and crack of Myrcan staves. He saw Madra fighting with her reins, hair wild; then a face out of a nightmare lunged up at him, and for the second time he confronted the tusked maw of a grypesh. With a twitch of its jaws it had ripped into his hide leggings. His horse spun wildly, but the grypesh held on, one of its claws digging into the leather of the saddle, the other curled round Riven’s calf. He tried to reach for his sword, but could not. The beast’s eyes shone at him and he felt the teeth touch his bare skin; then Isay appeared out of nowhere and brained it. The heavy grey body fell to the ground with a scree and was lost to view amid the plunging hoofs of Riven’s horse. He saw that all the company had dismounted, and were fighting a desperate battle against the pack surrounding them. He swung himself off his horse and nearly fell, but managed to jerk his sword out of the scabbard. Isay was beside him, wreaking carnage with his staff. Riven held his reins in one hand and jabbed at the snarling grypesh with the other as they darted into his reach.
