The Fathomless Caves

by Kate Forsyth

  Of them all, only Khan’gharad understood. He made no mention of her injuries and treated her as if she was whole and well. Not once did he offer to help as she limped about the camp, doing her duties as usual, nor did he ever enquire how she had slept.

  Slowly Iseult’s strength was returning. It would be some time before she had the use of her broken arm again, but the healers said her fractured rib was knitting well, and already the swelling and discolouration round her knee were fading. It was the injury to her pride that would take longer to heal; and all the fussing over her health, and constant exclamations over the strangeness of her rescue, only exacerbated her feelings.

  For some reason Iseult’s rescue by a snow-lion appealed to the superstitious imaginations of humans and Khan’cohbans alike. Iseult was rather perturbed to find that the story was already reaching mythic proportions, with many a new rich detail embroidered to the plain fabric of the truth. No matter how many times Iseult told them that it was her twin sister Isabeau who had sent the snow-lion, they all thought she had been merely hallucinating due to the cold and the shock. The snow-lion was a manifestation of the Gods of White, said the Khan’cohbans. Maybe, agreed the human soldiers. ‘It’s certainly no’ natural, a great wild creature like that coming down out o’ the storm to dig out the Banrìgh. It must mean she has a great destiny to fulfil. It must be a sign.’ Iseult could only hope they would find something new to talk about soon.

  At last the procession reached the edge of the forest. Tall trunks rose high all about them. The ulez came to a panting halt, nudging their noses through the thin snow to find the grass beneath. Iseult threw off her furs and clambered out of the sleigh, refusing Carrick’s eager offer of help.

  ‘We shall leave the sleighs here,’ Iseult said. ‘We are below the snowline now. The ulez can carry most o’ the luggage on their backs, but from now on all the men must carry their own weapons and their own supplies. We shall see some good hunting, I think. The land is lush and, by the looks o’ it, there is plenty o’ game.’

  Douglas MacSeinn was looking about him with undisguised pleasure. Sunlight struck down through the columns of trees in long, slanting lines. Small, brightly coloured birds darted about, twittering and chirping. The grass was thick and green and wound about with bright flowers, gold and crimson and blue. Hovering above the flowers were huge butterflies, their wings an iridescent blue. Iseult had never seen butterflies so big. They were larger than both her hands clasped together. They dipped their wings lazily, sipping at the flowers’ honey, their black velvety antennae quivering.

  ‘It be aye bonny,’ Douglas said eagerly. He had been only a child when he had left Carraig and this homecoming filled him with joy and excitement.

  ‘Aye, that it is,’ his father said, looking about with satisfaction. ‘I have never actually been up here. I had no idea it was so pretty, or for that matter that the land was so rich. The MacSeinn clan have always been tied to the sea. No-one ever came up this way except the furriers and fossickers.’

  ‘What were they fossicking for?’ Douglas asked, settling down on the grass to eat his rations in two huge bites.

  The MacSeinn shrugged, chewing his portion with rather more circumspection. ‘Gold, jewels? What do fossickers usually look for?’

  ‘Havers, imagine if we found gold,’ Douglas said excitedly. ‘Then we’d have the money to pay back the Rìgh and to pay all our men, and to build a new castle …’

  His father frowned at him. ‘That’s enough, Douglas! As far as I ken, none o’ them ever found more than a handful o’ gold dust. Nay, when we have won the war we shall have to reopen the saltpetre mines and start manufacturing gunpowder again. Eà kens we’ve been using enough these past few years!’

  ‘Though once we’ve won the war, who’ll be needing gunpowder again?’ Douglas said, lying back in the grass and staring up at the green-golden-blue interlock of leaves and sky, as bright as any enamelled glaze.

  The MacSeinn looked unhappy. ‘Aye, would that no’ be my luck? I own the richest saltpetre mines in all the land and canna access them when we need the stuff, and as soon as I win back my lands, the need is gone.’

  ‘We shall need fireworks to celebrate,’ Douglas said. ‘It’ll be the biggest explosion o’ fireworks ever, won’t it, Your Highness?’

  Iseult opened her eyes. ‘Aye, indeed it will,’ she said, trying not to show how much her ribs were paining her. ‘Come, we have rested long enough. Let us be on our way.’

  The MacSeinn looked at her shrewdly. ‘Why do we no’ make camp here?’ he said. ‘We have travelled far today and indeed I am feeling weary.’

  She smiled at him. ‘And ye so keen to be striking the first blow against your enemy,’ she replied, gently mocking. ‘Nay, my laird. I can hear water. Let us push on till we reach the river. It is no’ too much further, and once there I can busy the men to start felling trees to build us some rafts. Why should the river no’ carry us to the sea?’

  ‘What a grand idea,’ Douglas replied, leaping to his feet. He helped his father rise and then turned to offer Iseult his hand but she had taken advantage of his distraction to clamber to her feet herself, her hand clamped to her side. With her face wiped clean of all expression, she was rather gingerly shouldering her very heavy pack.

  ‘Your Highness,’ Douglas cried in dismay, just as Carrick One-Eye leapt forward, saying, ‘My lady, please, let me carry it for ye!’

  ‘Ye are already carrying your pack and Gayna’s,’ Iseult said reprovingly, sliding her splinted arm back inside her sling. ‘I ken your shoulders are broad, my lad, but then so are mine. I canna order the men to all carry such a load and then no’ carry it myself.’

  ‘But my lady …’

  ‘Come, stop fussing!’ she said sharply. ‘Let us be on our way.’

  Reluctantly Douglas and Carrick fell into step behind her, as she called to Khan’gharad and the other Scarred Warriors to lead the way.

  By sunset Iseult was white, the weight of the knapsack on her shoulders obviously bothering her. She would allow none to help her, though, and only the MacSeinn’s repeated requests that she slow down and wait for a poor old man who could not step as sprightly as she could gave her the excuse to stop occasionally and recover her strength.

  ‘Ye are no’ so auld,’ she said on one such occasion, when he insisted on her sitting beside him on a fallen log and sharing a wee dram of whisky with him. Through the trees they could see a blue winding ribbon of water that led to a wide stretch of sparkling loch.

  ‘No’ so young any more either,’ he replied. ‘And definitely no’ used to all this clambering over rocks. It’s grand for ye young things, bounding around like puppies, but I find it does no’ suit my dignity to have my men seeing me pant like an auld dog. So humour me, lassie, and let me bide a wee and catch my breath.’

  In the soft twilight they finally reached the banks of the river. Iseult was able to drop her load and sit quietly for a while, keeping the MacSeinn company while the men set up camp. The river murmured quietly to itself, running deep and swift over fine gravel between banks crowded with slender birch trees, their leaves blowing grey.

  The loch glimmered beyond, reflecting in serene perfection the tall peaks of the mountains behind them, radiant in the last bright burst of light from the sun. Douglas came and sat next to his father, breathing out a sigh of pure happiness. ‘This must be the loveliest spot on earth,’ he said. ‘I would fain live here always. Canna we build a castle here, Dai-dein?’

  His father frowned. ‘The MacSeinn clan has always lived on the coast,’ he said slowly.

  ‘Och, well, happen the coast is bonny too,’ Douglas said, not wanting to disturb the tranquillity of the evening.

  His father smiled rather grimly. ‘Actually, it be a wild, rugged sort o’ place,’ he admitted. ‘The cliffs are very high for much o’ the way and there are only a few safe harbours, which we’ve always had to fight hard to keep, the sea-demons wanting them too. There are no beaches like t
he ones ye have seen in Clachan, with soft sand where the waves creep in as gentle as a kitten. It’s all rocks and wild waves and steep cliffs, and in winter icebergs as big as castles drift past, and the water is so cold a man will die in minutes if he falls in.’

  ‘Oh,’ Douglas said, daunted.

  ‘It has its own beauty,’ the MacSeinn said, a faraway expression in his eyes. ‘But the wind in the winter! It never seems to stop, blowing the very soul out o’ ye.’

  He looked down at his son and smiled suddenly, though the deep lines between his brows did not soften. ‘I had forgotten the wind,’ he said. ‘Happen we can build a house here for the winter and come here to fish and hunt and climb in the mountains. Happen ye can learn to skim like the Khan’cohbans.’

  The sparkle came back into Douglas’s brilliant sea-green eyes. ‘Och, I’d like that!’

  In the morning the valley rang with the sound of axes against tree trunks. Iseult walked with her father on the gravelly river bank, discussing the safest method of rafting the river. Suddenly Khan’gharad squatted down, turning over the stones in his big hand.

  ‘What is it?’ Iseult asked.

  He turned his dark, scarred face towards her, holding up a pile of large, opaque pebbles. ‘These be diamonds.’

  Iseult’s breath suddenly caught. ‘Diamonds?’

  ‘Aye.’

  She took the pebbles from his hand. ‘But they’re so dull.’

  ‘All gems look like that in the rough. They are like weapons, they need to be honed and sharpened and polished.’ He straightened in a single fluid movement. ‘Like Scarred Warriors.’

  Iseult nodded, testing the weight of the pebbles in her hand. ‘Let us go and tell the MacSeinn,’ she said with a little rush of happiness. ‘If there are diamonds in this river, he need no’ worry about being poor ever again.’

  ‘If he survives,’ Khan’gharad replied.

  Nila woke. All his body ached. He felt cool wetness on his brow. He opened his eyes with difficulty, light stabbing into his brain. He moaned and tried to cover his eyes with his hand, but his arm would not move. A shadow fell upon him. He flinched back, but a gentle hand held him still. One of his ralisen was leaning over him, his face creased with concern.

  ‘How do you feel, my prince?’ he asked.

  ‘Like shark bait,’ Nila answered hoarsely, coughing. He tried to sit up and the warrior helped him, passing him a shell full of cool rainwater. Nila drank thankfully, looking about him. They were on a narrow stretch of sand between high rocky headlands. Nila recognised it. It was the same beach where he had woken before. There was the rock where his father had sat and ordered his brothers to beat him to death.

  ‘Why am I alive?’ he asked.

  The warrior gave an ironic laugh. ‘I do not know, my prince. We thought you were dead when we found you. Almighty Jor must have his hand upon you, for you still breathed despite the beating they gave you.’

  There was anger and condemnation in his voice. Nila squinted up at him. ‘We?’ he asked.

  ‘The warriors of your pod, my prince.’

  Nila looked about and saw the faces of all his men leaning over him. Involuntary tears sprang up in his eyes. He swallowed, determined not to show how deeply touched he was.

  ‘They bade us follow them but when they had beached for the night, we left the others and came back,’ another warrior said. ‘We did not expect to find you alive, my prince. We thought only to give you the honours due a prince and send you into Jor’s embrace as one of your courage deserved. You may have trusted the sea-singer foolishly but you did not deserve such a death, nor to be left stranded on a beach like a jellyfish. We thought to chant the rites and send you out to sea, with your pearl upon your breast and gifts for the gods at your feet.’

  Nila put up his fingers and feebly touched the black pearl upon his breast. ‘But my brother …’

  ‘Your brother Lonan was stung by a sand scorpion,’ the warrior said softly. ‘Somehow one crept into his furs.’

  ‘They gave him all honour due a prince,’ another said. ‘The proper rites were spoken and he was put to sea with many fine gifts for the gods.’

  ‘But not the black pearl,’ the first said. ‘Jor gave the pearl to you, we thought you should be the one to give it back to him.’

  ‘Except you were not dead. So we washed you and bound your broken ribs and arm, and hung the black pearl around your neck once more.’

  ‘Why?’ Nila asked. ‘Do you not realise what they will do to you if they find out?’

  There was an uneasy movement. The warriors looked at each other.

  ‘It would not be honourable for us to do anything else,’ one of the warriors said at last. ‘You are our jaka.’

  ‘You spoke against the King with wisdom and great courage,’ another said. ‘It was wrong for a wise and brave man to die with such dishonour. Our king may choose to act so and command his sons to act so, but we are beholden only to our own consciences. That is not the way of a warrior, to beat a good man to death because he speaks what he sees to be true.’

  Nila could not speak for a moment. At last he was able to say, ‘I thank you.’

  They nodded their heads. One gave him some more water to drink and another brought him some fish, tender, white and salty. He ate gratefully, although the salt stung his bloodied mouth.

  ‘Is it true what you said?’ one said at last. ‘That the Priestesses of Jor seek to raise the sea into a tidal wave?’

  Nila nodded.

  ‘And that tidal wave shall fall upon the land and drown it?’

  Nila nodded again. With one eye sealed shut with puffy bruises and the other still wincing from the light, it was hard for him to read the expression of the ralisen, and his voice was carefully free of intonation. Nila wondered where these questions were leading.

  ‘And all life on the land shall be drowned?’

  ‘All life near the sea,’ Nila answered.

  ‘And is it true that the Priestesses of Jor have called upon Kani, Mother of the Gods, for the power to raise this tidal wave?’ Despite all his best intentions, the warrior could not keep the fear and dismay from his voice.

  ‘Yes, it is true,’ Nila answered. ‘I was there, I heard Kani speak through one of the priestesses.’

  ‘It cannot be a good thing, to raise the goddess of earthquake and volcanoes,’ the warrior said, his voice shaking a little.

  ‘No,’ Nila said.

  ‘How will we survive?’ another said anxiously. ‘How will any of us survive?’

  ‘I do not know,’ Nila answered, feeling the shadow of despair falling upon him again.

  ‘What can we do?’ the warriors all asked. ‘How can we stop it? How can we save ourselves? And our soul-brothers the whales? What can we do?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Nila said, closing his eyes again. ‘There is nothing we can do.’

  War is an unpredictable beast. Once unleashed, it runs like a rabid dog, ravening friend or foe alike. It can drag on for years, a slow attrition of nerve and fortitude, or be over in one brilliant flash, an extravagant conflagration of flame and blood and waste.

  At first it seemed as if the war against the Fairgean would be won in just such a blaze, a holocaust of burning ocean in which flaming sea-serpents writhed and shrieked, and a hundred Fairgean warriors were incinerated in an instant. Black, oily smoke rolled up, choking those that watched in stunned horror from the royal fleet. The waves themselves burnt with a strange green fire. No matter how frantically the sea-serpents thrashed, no matter how deep the warriors dived, still they burned and burned until all that was left was a crust of ash and cinders that clogged the roll of the waves. The sides of all the ships were smeared with it, black and oily.

  ‘Eà’s green blood!’ Lachlan coughed, wiping his streaming eyes. ‘That seafire o’ my uncle works as well as he promised!’

  ‘It does no’ seem honourable, to spray them with that stuff and then simply watch them burn,’ Duncan Ironfist said, his bearded face
very grim.

  ‘Was it honourable for them to attack us in the midst o’ our Beltane feast?’ the Duke of Killiegarrie retorted. He was holding his plaid over his mouth, his eyes red-rimmed from the acridity of the smoke. ‘We are at war, and any strategy that brings us victory must be honourable.’

  Duncan Ironfist shook his head. ‘Eà save us from such a war,’ he answered. His golden eyes troubled, Lachlan watched him walk away down the forecastle.

  ‘They shall no’ attack our fleet so quickly next time,’ Admiral Tobias said with satisfaction. ‘And the wind blows unusually fair, thanks to the wind-whistling o’ your witches. We shall round Cape Providence in just four days if we have no more trouble.’

  ‘There’ll be no more trouble,’ the Duke of Killiegarrie said confidently. ‘With this seafire o’ the MacBrann’s we shall simply incinerate any Fairge that pops his head out o’ the water.’

  ‘Pride goeth before destruction and a haughty spirit before a fall,’ Arvin the Just, the first mate of the Royal Stag, intoned solemnly. Like many Tìrsoilleirean, he had a proverb for every occasion, most of them very depressing. In this case, though, he was proved right. As the royal fleet rounded Cape Providence three days later, they were taken by surprise by a storm of such ferocity that seven of the royal fleet were sunk, and the remaining ships much damaged. Nearly every boat had one or two broken masts, their sails torn into shreds and holes ripped in the hulls. Supplies were ruined by saltwater, men were swept overboard, and many of their goats and sheep were drowned.

  Isabeau and the other witches wrought a circle of power and sought to calm the storm, but they were hampered by the pitching and rolling of the ship, the drag of the gale-force winds and the lashing of the icy sleet. All they were able to do was swing the calm eye of the storm over the fleet long enough for the navy to limp to safety in one of the few deep harbours along the wild and rocky coastline.