by Paul Kearney
‘Kirgaern,’ Riven heard one of their dwarvish guides whisper. ‘The Teller of Kasnrim Jhaar.’
Kirgaern finished his scrutiny and stared into the fire pit with his hands tucked into his belt, as though lost in meditation. Riven saw Thormod’s face behind him in the dimmer light—Calum’s face, flame-lit and thoughtful.
Then Kirgaern spoke.
‘In the beginning, there was the Face of the Water, looking up into darkness above. And below the water there was mud and stone, and more darkness yet. Nothing moved on the face of the water or in its depths, and the darkness above it held no light.’
His voice was low, deep like the voices of all the Dwarves, but it had a lilt to it that was something like music, and he made the words of his story into a song.
‘Then it was that something stirred in the deeps of the waters, something moved and shifted and opened its eyes and looked out on to the blackness. It was a Dwarf, and his name was Modi.
‘Modi pushed a stone with his hand, and who knows if it was by chance or design? But the stone moved under his fingers. The stone shifted and touched another, which toppled and brushed a third, and so it went until the depths of the waters were alive with the rumblings and the crashings of stone, the grinding of boulders and the grate of rock.
‘And so it was that the Beginning truly began. Immense piles of rock and stone and mud built up and rose and collapsed again, but in the main went ever upwards until there was a break in the surface of the waters as the topmost point of the highest pebble was pushed out of the seas. More followed—jagged heaps and points of stone, the round heads of boulders and the grey sweeps of scree and shingle—until at long last there was a mountain standing there in the midst of the waters, with its head and shoulders blunt and wet in the dark. And that mountain the Dwarves call Arat Gor, the First Berg. It was so high that its peak scraped the dark mass of the sky above, and holed it there so that light from the worlds beyond spilled in and set the oceans ablaze with the first dawn.
‘Then the Dwarf Modi dug his way out of the depths of the rock with his bare fingers, and clawed his way upwards until the light lit his eyes and the wind was on his face; and he stared in wonder at what he had wrought.
‘But the oceans were wrathful at him for making land that was dry underfoot and usurping their hegemony, and they sent their legions, the waves of the sea, to assault the mountain and the Dwarf, so that the water smashed on to Arat Gor like a furious storm and sought to tear Modi from his place there. And little by little, the stone began to break and crack and split under the battery of the sea. The mountain began to slump and tilt in the waters, and Modi with it. And the oceans laughed in glee, thinking that soon they would be lords over all again.
‘And then Modi shouted into the tumult of waters and spray, begging the oceans to cease their assault and leave him be and let the mountain live, and they laughed again and asked him why should they? So Modi tried to bargain. He offered to tell them a riddle, and they scorned him. And then he offered to sing them a song, but they would have none of it. And finally he said he would tell them a story, the finest story ever heard, and the waves ceased their blows, the waters calmed, and the seas agreed to listen and spare him until his story was done.
‘So the Dwarf Modi began his story, and it was a tale never to be heard again. Years he sat there on the cold stone of the first mountain with the seas crowding round to listen to his words, and he told the first story ever to be told.
‘He spoke of water, its fury and its majesty, the might of waves in storm. And then he spoke of the calm blue of windless seas, the stillness of a pond without ripples, and he spoke of the music of running water, of streams and rills, rivers and lakes, waterfalls and cataracts. And as he spoke, springs started bubbling out of the rock of the mountain around him, and one grew in size, hurrying down through the stone and the bare mud to join its brethren in the sea; and that was the Great River.
‘He spoke then of the stubbornness of stone, the obdurate endurance of granite. He spoke of mountains and peaks, valleys and cliffs, rock falls and boulder fields, and as he talked there reared up around the First Berg a host, a horde, a crowd of its brothers and sisters—fellow mountains grinding into the light of that first day. The Greshorns.
‘His tale continued. He spoke of the warmth and richness of soil, the goodness in loam, the sustenance in the very dirt of the earth. And around him things stirred where the mud had gathered. Heather sprouted, and grass, and snowdrops, the first of the flowers after winter. And the great trees put out their roots and stretched themselves and thrust leafy heads into the sun, becoming ever larger as the light touched them.
‘And such was the power of Modi’s tale that the worlds beyond the sky paused to listen, and they came crowding around the holes the first mountain had created in the sky, the pinpricks its fellow mountains had caused, and the light from them blazed through as stars. But as the other worlds leaned close to listen their inhabitants tumbled out of them, through the holes in the sky into our world, and they fell on to the land that was birthing below. And thus came the giants, and Vyrmen, the wolves, and grypesh, the horses and men. They fell upon the ground and lay amid the roots of the trees, and looked up at the worlds they had fallen from, and had no choice but to make a home for themselves where they were. In this land of ours, named Minginish, they prospered and throve and grew in numbers. And still Modi’s tale was not done.
‘Now the seas knew they had been tricked by Modi. The land of his story had grown great and strong, and the mountains high and indomitable. In fury they threw themselves at it and battered the coasts of the world, seeking to destroy it, but they could not. And they are there still, fighting the stone of the world and breaking it into sand, seeking to swallow it. One day they will, but the world has a while to run before they do.
‘Modi’s tale was finished and he lay with the life leaking out of him, for he had given it to make his tale come to life. And as he died, the mountains reverenced him. They took his bones and buried him. From his skull they fashioned Talisker Hill, and in his beard the forests thickened and covered the land. And the life that was in him seeped down into the very rock and earth of the world, and became the magic that sustains it.
‘But from his bones, the mountains crafted others in his likeness, and the Dwarves opened their eyes and wrenched themselves free of the grave of their father. They dwelt in the mountains as men dwelt in the forests, and they plumbed the dark recesses in the bowels of the mountains, seeking the magic that was their father’s legacy.
‘Aeons passed. Tens of centuries came and went like the leaves of an autumn tree. The Dwarves delved deep, men tamed the forests and built cities, the first of which was on the high hill of Talisker beside the Great River. And the Giants dwindled, became degenerate. They grew stunted and evil, and their intelligence waned. They became creatures of the snows and the high peaks, marauders of winter, and were called the Rime-folk and were much feared.
‘Only some retained their former stature and of these one was Myrca, from whose statue the Dwarves created the Myrcans. The Folk of Stone had spent untold years subduing the beasts of the mountains and the deep woods, to safeguard the world from their ravaging. They had fought battles in the depths of their mines and on the peaks of the mountains, and they were tired of it. So the Myrcans took this task upon themselves, as the Dwarves had known they would.
‘There was magic in the world, then. Tunnelling deep, the Dwarves found the essence of their father and refined it, working wonders with its powers. They built Jhaars all through the mountains, so that the Greshorns became a vast city, riddled with their mines and their fortresses. But the magic was too powerful for one race. Dwarf fought Dwarf for it, and there were civil wars in the mountains that crippled the Folk of Stone. Many of their great works were abandoned and their dwellings were left empty, and the Greshorns were given a name by men for evil sorcery and wicked weather.
‘So the Dwarves met in council, and decided th
at the magic was not theirs to wield alone. They gave some of it to a cripple named Birkinlig, who had come seeking them in the mountains, and told him to distribute it through the folk of Minginish; and this he did. And the most powerful magic they took and sealed in the peak of Arat Gor, that men now called the Staer, and there it lay locked in the stone of the Inaccesible Pinnacle, harming no one. And Minginish prospered. Men began calling the passage of years their history, and they wrote books on it, and chained down the seasons with a count of the years. They felled the forests and mastered the land, and fought wars among themselves, while the Dwarves watched them from the mountains and said nothing.
‘Some say that Modi’s tale never finished, that he is somewhere yet, speaking still, and that the day the tale ends will be the day the seas rush in to claim the land at last. And some say the tale can never end, for there will always be another to take it up and tell another chapter. That is beyond our knowledge, for we are within the story and cannot see out of it. All we can do—man and Dwarf and Vyrman and Giant—is live a life that makes the story worth the telling.’
The Dwarf’s powerful voice fell into silence in the cavern and for a moment there was no sound. Even the rock of the walls seemed to be listening, waiting for more. Then he smiled, bowed to his audience and stepped back to his place on the bench.
A thumping noise began in the cavern, like the sound of far-off drums, and Riven saw that the Dwarves were beating their breasts with their fists in applause. He sat as the noise grew to a crescendo and, beside him, Isay, Bicker and Ratagan joined in.
He stared at the floor. He had been given his answers at last, and knew what it was that Minginish wanted of him.
He looked at Jinneth. She had let the cloak fall from her face, and the bruise at her mouth was visible even in the firelight. Her eyes were empty, face expressionless.
Sgurr Dearg, or Arat Gor as the Dwarves had named it. He had known all along that it was the key, that something had happened that summer morning of Jenny’s death. He knew the quest would end on a certain ledge below the Inaccessible Pinnacle, as it had begun there.
Magic and storytelling. Always it had come down to those. And now he knew why.
Somehow what had happened on Sgurr Dearg had released the magic the Dwarves had buried there. And he had taken it to himself, ripping a door from his world to this one. Thormod had said the dark girl was composed of pure magic, and so she was—the same magic he now held within him. He and Jenny had together been invested with the power to make or break this world, a world that even in its own myths was but a continuing story. Riven had become the storyteller. He was not only inspired by Minginish; he controlled it. Jenny was dead, but the magic had taken something of her and sent it walking Minginish, looking for him.
He had another appointment to keep.
But it went further. There had been a link between himself and this world long before Jenny’s death—hence his novels. And Jinneth, who was becoming more like Jenny with every step she took closer to the Red Mountain: her role had yet to be seen.
The Dwarves were standing up, leaving the hall in thick streams. Riven realised he had been blind to his surroundings for minutes. Thormod was standing before him.
‘Have you found your answers?’ the Dwarf asked gently.
Riven hauled himself to his feet. The company were staring at him as though they expected some great revelation. He smiled despite himself.
‘I think so. I know where I have to go. And I have an idea about what there is to do.’
Thormod nodded, satisfied. ‘You must leave soon. The bad weather is breaking outside, I am told, and the Greshorns are pitiless to travellers at the best of times. Your gear is ready as we speak.’
‘You’ve been busy,’ Riven noted.
‘You have not far to go,’ Thormod said, ‘if your destination is what I believe it to be, but the way is hard. We will set you on the straight path to the mountain.’
‘Thank you.’ Riven scanned the faces of the company. Isay with his eyes narrowed and eager, Ratagan humorous as always but with lines etched deeply around his brows. Bicker ruminative, but with a smile for him, half-mocking. And Jinneth with her accusing bruises and a hopeless look that made his heart twist within him.
‘I guess we’re ready now,’ he said.
NINETEEN
THE SNOW WAS blinding in its whiteness, the bright sunlight setting it alight so they had to narrow their eyes against its glare. Above them, the sky was a flawless blue, a vast arch that rested on the peaks of the mountains that covered every horizon. Riven estimated their height at some twelve thousand feet. He sucked the thin air into his lungs and breathed out again in a nimbus of steam. He knew these mountains. They were too high, too big, but he recognised them. He could see the long curved sweep of the Cuillin Range from where he stood. He could make out Sgurr nan Gillean, Sgurr a Ghreadaidh, Sgurr na Banachdich... all those mountains he had once clambered upon, there in front of him, the heights of Alps now. The traverse of their peaks would not be easy. If the weather turned bad again, it could prove well-nigh impossible.
He glanced at Jinneth. The raw air had put colour into her cheeks and made her eyes sparkle. Her hair was flying free in the stiff breeze that blew snow off the high peaks in banners. There seemed nothing alien about her now; her face was as familiar to him as his own. He looked away.
The Dwarves had led them up winding stairs of countless steps that coiled inside the mountains, and had brought them out here, on the snow-hooded slopes of a high peak that overlooked the rest of the Greshorn Range to the north. The Staer, Thormod had told them, was just over a day’s journey away, and the guard the Dwarves had set upon the mountain had been recalled. Riven did not ask how. He had a feeling that the Vyrmen were not the only race of this world that could speak to each others’ minds.
And then the Dwarves had closed the stone of their door after them and retreated into their underworld mansion, leaving the mountainside as bare and unmarked as before, except where the snow had been disturbed.
And that was that. There were no longer any people whose advice could be sought, no sages whose wisdom would show him what to do. He was alone in this thing.
Almost done.
‘I hope you know the way, Bicker,’ he said to the dark man.
‘I could never forget it,’ Bicker said. ‘I did not come out here, though. I travelled lower down, along a shallow valley that lies on the other side ofthe ridge ahead. It will be a simple matter to pick up the trail.’
Riven tugged at a pack strap that was eating into his collar bone. ‘Let’s be off, then.’
The Dwarves had outfitted them well, equipping the five of them with thick clothing fashioned out of reindeer hide and trimmed with what looked suspiciously like Rime Giant fur. On their feet were spiked iron frames not unlike crampons, and they carried ropes and ice axes. The Dwarves had seen enough winters in the mountains to encourage them to develop such equipment, though Ratagan and Isay eyed it a trifle dubiously.
They trudged forward in Bicker’s wake, Riven behind the dark man, Isay next, then Jinneth, and Ratagan bringing up the rear. Their feet sank ankle-deep in the snow before the spikes on their boots gripped the ice beneath. They leaned on their axes and ploughed on doggedly, with the wind bringing tears to their eyes and whipping the hair back from their foreheads. It was a bitter blast, lashing the mountains and raising plumes of powdery snow from their summits so they seemed to be trailing white smoke into the clear sky. Their breath puffed out in clouds before it was snatched away, misting the fur of their clothes with rime. It searched for every seam, every gap, and wormed its way under their garments to steal the warmth from them. Despite their exertions, they were shuddering with cold as they walked. Riven wondered if snow was lying in the Dales, if Talisker was dusted with it, if Madra was even now watching it pile up at a window in Quirinus’s house and thinking about him. And was it falling at the bothy, on his home? It was rare to get snow there, since they were on th
e shore, but it had happened one year, one fine, cold winter’s day, and he and his wife had marvelled at it like children, and made an expedition of climbing the ridge and forging through the snow to the post office at Elgol, six miles away. They had arrived thick with snow, chilled to the bone, happy as summer swallows. A day to tell tall tales about, to mull over afterward when the fire was bright in the hearth and the driftwood was burning blue in the midst of the peat. That was luxury. Those were riches. He had been a wealthy man, and had not even known it.
And here he was again, in the midst of those mountains, only now they stood tall as dreams before him, savage and unforgiving, beautiful as a sword blade. He was glad that he knew enough now to be grateful for such things. They were worth hoarding, the bitter along with the sweet.
All day they plodded on, slowly losing height and making their way down to the path that Bicker knew. They dug their axes into the ice and stabbed their feet into the snow, cutting steps for themselves in places, roping themselves together in others; stumbling, tripping, slipping and sliding, helping each other and being helped without a word. Riven even saw Isay supporting Jinneth over a sheer ice sheet. They had come too far, he realised, to worry about treachery now, or to debate anything. There was only the one road left to travel.
They reached Bicker’s path after four hours of descent, the muscles in their legs quivering with strain, and set off without pause up the ridge beyond. Once they gained its height, they would be on the traverse itself, and would maintain altitude. Riven could not help wondering about where they would sleep that night if a storm crept up on them. The sky was still almost clear, but there were clouds skirmishing at the horizon’s rim, veiling the summits there with grey fog, and the wind was picking up farther. Even the Dwarf-made clothing could not keep out its bite.
