A Fire in the North Read online

  In spite of his trauma, Bolldhe could not help but grin. Serves him right; he’s got nobody to blame but himself. After all, it was Kuthy (‘the last of the living heroes’) who had persuaded them to take this route in the first place, through enchanted Eotunlandt, this ‘fairest, most wonderful land that has ever beglammered my eyes’. Some short cut – it had damn near been the death of them! Bolldhe shuddered at the memory of it . . .

  Sky’s countenance had darkened, broiled and, from the churning black mass of clouds that rolled across this land of giants, outpoured its full fury upon their heads. Amid the deluge of the storm and the blinding white light that scorched the earth all about them, they had run for their lives, tempest-lashed, their wits wholly departed. Summoned into being by the bloodletting between the travellers and the bandits they had encountered, the giants had come for them, and chased both venturer and thief alike over the inundated uplands, while hell’s rolling barrage thundered from horizon to horizon.

  But Kuthy, for once, had not failed them but brought them as he had promised to the secret doorway leading out of this land. Keenly they had plunged beneath the clay, just before the giant’s foot, like the Hammer of God, smote down upon them. Night had obliterated day with one immense detonation, and flooded its victims like ants down into their nest.

  But with the two clashing groups of interlopers now safely sealed into their temporary grave, those phantom but very real-seeming giants had retreated from this land, this reality. Now, down through the rocks that were the crumpled ruin of the gate, seeped the rain and turned all to slurry.

  Forsooth’s sake, Bolldhe reflected, that was a close one! He began to quake violently at the memory, having himself been the tiniest fraction of a second away from utter annihilation. Death by giant. And though he hated to dwell on it, he could not help wondering what it would have felt like. Would it have been simply too quick to register, or would there have been time for him to feel every bone in his body crunch, every muscle rupture, and his innards shoot forth from his mouth?

  ‘Just how flattened can the human frame get?’ he wondered aloud.

  ‘About as flat as the ants we used to crush when we were little boys,’ came the reply from a large boulder resting atop the rubble where the portal had once stood.

  It was Wodeman. As caked in dust as the others, he now looked more a permanent part of the cave than did the cave itself. He lifted himself with difficulty from his crouching position, precipitating a fall of loose soil from his shaggy wolf-pelt, and clambered down to squat next to Bolldhe.

  Number seven, Bolldhe thought to himself with relief. There was something he had to say to the shaman, but he could not think of the word.

  ‘By Kulhuch, did you see the size of those things, Bolldhe?’ Wodeman muttered. ‘And I’m sure the one at the front was carrying a steaming kettle . . .’

  Bolldhe regarded his saviour with concern. There was a definite look of shellshock in the shaman’s eyes, and he was having difficulty keeping the hysteria from his voice.

  ‘This is getting worse and worse by the day,’ Wodeman went on, ‘the further north we journey. And it won’t get any better, either. If you think this is bad, wait till you get to Melhus itself. I ask you, Bolldhe, what can insects like us possibly do against beings like those? Eh? If we ever get out of this, I swear I’m heading straight back to Nordwas. And when I get there, I’ll not stop either; I’m going to pick up the kids, and whichever of their mothers want to come along, and just carry on south as far as I can go, the further away from these hellish northern lands, the better . . . But we’ll not get back out that way again,’ he pointed to the pile of rubble, ‘though dig we might for a week and a day. We’re trapp—’

  ‘Thank you,’ Bolldhe interrupted him. That was the word he had been trying to think of.

  Wodeman stopped in mid-sentence, and stared at him.

  ‘You came back for me,’ Bolldhe went on. ‘You could’ve been killed – by rights you should have been killed – but you came back anyway. Nobody’s ever done that for me before. Thank you.’

  Wodeman continued to stare into Bolldhe’s eyes. He beheld the steadiness there, something he had never noticed in the traveller before. He held on to it, and gradually grew calmer himself. And Bolldhe, for his part, enjoyed for the first time a brief feeling of warmth towards his unwanted mentor. Nobody had asked Wodeman, this self-appointed ‘dream-giver’, this ‘messenger of the Earth Spirit’, to join them on this quest; not Bolldhe, who had always resented the shaman’s intrusions into his private thoughts and the visions he wove into Bolldhe’s mind; not the priests, who considered Wodeman’s pagan meddling with their protégé something of a threat to their own monopoly on proselytizing; and certainly not their Peladane leader, who deemed any association with such ‘coppice-hoppers’ embarrassing. But Wodeman had come anyway, ever counselling Bolldhe, weaving dream-spells into his tired mind, essaying to enlighten him as to his divine calling.

  They were, of course, all mad, the three priests: Wodeman, Appa and Finwald. Of that Bolldhe was sure. He no more believed that he was the Chosen One than he believed that their gods were anything other than the worst disaster that had ever afflicted the world. Any devotion he had was to himself and himself alone. Nevertheless, this weird priest Wodeman had snatched him out from under a giant’s foot, and for that, at least, Bolldhe could feel beholden.

  ‘The giants are gone now,’ he assured the shaman. ‘They won’t trouble us any more. We beat them. Whatever lies on the other side of that heap of stone, forget it. It’s none of our business now; we’re headed the other way.’

  The sorcerer’s eyes, after flitting back to the blocked portal, did appear to regain some composure. He nodded, and clamped his hand upon Bolldhe’s shoulder.

  ‘Forget the tunnel entrance,’ Bolldhe reassured him. ‘We’ve crossed that threshold, and there’ll be no going back now. Just keep thinking of the other exit. And that lies up there. Come on, I think the others are ready to move.’

  What Bolldhe said was true: the giants really were gone. In the barrow-like deadness of the tunnel no sound could be heard – save the men’s unsteady voices. Not even a whisper came from outside, so that some began to wonder if the giants had ever existed. Just as the Spirit of War had summoned them, and their prey’s terror sustained them, as the mortals now huddled in this rats’ runnel they realized that those elder spirits had returned to wherever they had come from. Battle was done, its frenzy had departed, and this world was no longer any place for such as they.

  The giants now banished from their thoughts, the two vying groups – questers and thieves – now turned their attention to the tunnel ahead.

  It was an odd feeling, these two parties that had only hours before been at each others’ throats, now forced together into an alliance in order to survive. It was to say the least an uneasy truce. Though there was hardly the energy for hostility left in anyone now, there were some among the thieves of Tyvenborg who were still openly ill-disposed towards the Peladane and his party. Notably among these was Brother Oswiu Garoticca, who was not at all happy that Bolldhe’s group had managed to snatch back the flamberge sword he had earlier stolen from them. Hlessi (who, let’s face it, was a Grell) remained openly hostile, and also Khurghan, who was by his very nature a spiteful, beady-eyed, malevolent little runt at the best of times.

  Wisely, however, their leader Eorcenwold kept these few malcontents well away from the Aescals, at the far end of the line.

  The only Tyvenborger who might have caused real trouble, namely the Dhracus demi-human Dolen Catscaul, was fortunately still unconscious. Judging by the unctuous odours hovering around her, she was now in the healing care of the Hauger Flekki and her dubious salves. Once the giants had appeared in the middle of the men’s conflict, all her ‘friends’ had disappeared so rapidly one could almost have heard an implosion of air from the speed of them. As a result, none of them had been around to witness how Bolldhe, of all people, had saved the Dhracus fro
m certain death. Almost without thinking he had thrown her unconscious form across his horse’s back, then ordered Appa to get her into the shelter of the tunnel. The sight of the priest bringing her to safety may have baffled the thieves, but surely it did go some way to cooling their animosity.

  For some reason Bolldhe had not been able to bring himself to leave her there. Not even though she had almost killed him in their duel. Not after what he had done to her swain . . . Not after he had become a murderer.

  There it was again, that awful word. Once more came to him the image of Eggledawc Clagfast’s lifeless eyes staring back up at him, and with it an awful sickness in the pit of Bolldhe’s soul. His mind recoiled with the horror of it, yet this same horror also held for him a cold fascination. The memory of it – the slicing of the windpipe, the gristle separating, the arterial spray – Bolldhe found himself repeating the sequence in his head over and again, almost savouring it. But even worse was knowing that, at the time, he had enjoyed it – become aroused, excited, maybe addicted, lost his head in its every scarlet detail, feasted on it, could never get enough of it.

  Bolldhe had crossed that threshold, he knew, and there was no going back.

  Now all the members of either group wanted to do was get out of that accursed tunnel, leave this land and never set eyes on each other again. And even though the final destination of both parties was fairly obviously the same, nobody made any mention of it. They would cross that bridge if and when they came to it.

  By tacit agreement, the thieves set off first into the darkness ahead, with Nibulus and his men trailing behind at a careful distance. Neither party wished to stay any closer than was absolutely necessary, yet both were loath to let the other out of their sight. Certainly neither Nibulus nor Paulus had any intention of letting the thieves get far enough ahead to set some sort of trap or ambush for them.

  It was a long journey, this ascent through the mountains, and – as it turned out – even more gruelling than the tunnel leading into the other side of Eotunlandt. This passage was as narrow and airless as their most claustrophobic nightmares, and, as each one of them was constantly aware, every step took them deeper and deeper into the heart of the Giant Mountains.

  The tunnel itself was a mystery. Bolldhe, aiming the beam of his lantern around at its stone surfaces, continually wondered who, or what, had made it. It snaked around with no apparent design, sometimes level and sometimes sloping, yet was too regular in its width and height to be merely some kind of natural cave network.

  Then came the steps. These, at least, appeared man-made. Their narrow flights might take the travellers up for a hundred yards or so, before once again levelling out, but they might equally go on ascending for an hour or more, without respite. Slick with icy water, crumbling with age, they gradually, slowly took their charges up into the mountain heights.

  ‘Hakkevana lepeu’ah! Ghevaccanema!’

  This phrase, one that not even Bolldhe understood, his Aescal companions heard time and time again being uttered somewhere up ahead. In their haste to escape the giants, the thieves had abandoned most of their gear, and were forced to ration their torches stringently. From their position some way behind, the Aescals could hear the scuffing of unsure feet and frequent cursing as a thief would lose his footing on the treacherous surface and fall flat on his face. At first this was almost amusing, especially as Nibulus and his men were much better equipped for this second tunnel. But after over two hours of listening to exactly the same expletives, it did begin to whittle away their patience.

  ‘Hakkevana lepeu’ah! Ghevaccanema!’

  Frequent rest breaks were necessary on these longer flights of steps, and on such occasions Nibulus and Paulus would position themselves a little closer to the thieves, just to keep an eye on them. It was almost comical how both groups could be seen, one by the other, in the scant light, eyeing each other suspiciously.

  So it went on tediously for the rest of the day.

  Before nightfall (though it seemed long after nightfall to most of them) they began to notice narrow beams of light filtering down through the ceiling above. The fissures were never wider than a keyhole, so the light that penetrated was pale and distant. But to the exhausted travellers they were like air to drowning men. Hearts lifted, anxiety subsided, breathing grew calmer. Gradually these pencil-thin shafts of illumination dimmed, and dimmed further, until very soon they faded altogether. But the air yet retained its new cleanness, and hope remained in the hearts of the travellers.

  Then, sometime around an hour after sunset, the Peladane’s men emerged unexpectedly into a wide cavern. Most of them revelled in the sudden sense of freedom, while the slough horse positively whinnied in delight. But Wodeman, Appa and Paulus felt that familiar sense of unease begin to rise again within them, and they looked around, fumbling for amulet or weapon.

  ‘Er, Nibulus,’ Appa called out in a low voice, ‘where are they? Our friends from the Thieves’ Fortress?’

  All of them looked around in sudden alarm. The thieves were nowhere to be seen, and of their earlier clumsy progress, not a sound could be heard. Without hesitation they retreated back to the relative shelter of the passage and readied their weapons in anticipation. They listened carefully, but all was still – save for the tremor of their own breathing, there was no sound to be heard at all.

  In that pause Bolldhe felt the hilt of a sword being pressed into his palm. He glanced to one side, away from the light cast by his hooded lantern, and in the shadows next to him beheld a shape with eyes that burnt red in the flame, eyes that regarded him with intent. It was Finwald – and he was returning the flamberge.

  ‘Take it, Bolldhe,’ the priest whispered conspiratorially. ‘It is yours, after all.’

  He sounded like an indulgent grandparent pressing a sweet into the hand of a child while its parents were not looking. Bolldhe almost expected him to fold a hand over his own and wink at him mischievously.

  Bloody priest seems hell-bent on me using that damn sword! Bolldhe cursed to himself, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if it was him who stole it from me in the first place.

  Bolldhe’s mind went back to that night, that murky, drunken, confusing night a month ago in Myst-Hakel when he had left the pub and staggered over the creaking shackleboard walkways, through the dark and empty streets, and back to the old temple where they were all billeted . . .

  . . . Just in time to see the furtive shadow stealing out of the window of their lodgings – with Bolldhe’s axe in his hands. Of all the things to steal. Nothing else had been taken, not gold, amethyst nor any other precious item, but a crappy, notched old broadaxe.

  Finwald had been in the pub with the others when Bolldhe had left, though, hadn’t he? On the other hand, it had taken the ale-addled Bolldhe some time to find his way back to their lodgings. Bolldhe now appraised Finwald carefully. For a priest of the god of Truth, he seemed to have rather a lot of secrets. Why hadn’t he told them his real identity earlier, that he was originally called Nipah Glemp, an alchemist’s apprentice? Why be so cagey about everything?

  Well, whoever the thief was, he had seemed most determined about the axe. Didn’t drop it at Bolldhe’s angry shout nor during the ensuing chase; kept a tight hold on it right the way out of town and over the marshes . . .

  . . . Leading him all the way to the abandoned mine. All the way – so conveniently – to the chamber, and the flamberge, just waiting for him among the debris . . .

  And to the Afanc, also just waiting for him among the debris. Bolldhe blanched, the memory of the Beast far too fresh in his mind. Especially in this fearful place, so like the mine.

  He sighed loudly, and the sound echoed eerily throughout the underground spaces. They listened intently to it. Judging by the echo, they must have arrived at the beginning of a network of caves that stretched extensively ahead through the mountain. Countless stone surfaces amplified any sound tenfold, sustained it, and sent it back to them in multi-pitched discords. Yet of their unwanted compani
ons, the thieves, not a whisper could be heard.

  This was all very unnerving, for only seconds earlier Eorcenwold’s men could be seen and heard, stumbling awkwardly twenty or thirty paces ahead of them, cursing like grumpy old dwarfs as they dragged themselves and their unconscious Dhracus onward and upward.

  Or had it been longer ago? Minutes, perhaps? Maybe half an hour? Now they came to think about it, none of them could actually remember even approximately how long ago it was since they had last heard any sound of the thieves. At the beginning of their ascent, the Peladane’s company had kept themselves very much aware of their enemies’ presence. But now, in this new cavern, everything seemed so unsure. Trying to remember anything clearly felt like grasping at dreams. Cut off from the world above in this granite tomb, time seemed to have become every bit as distorted as the echoes that flitted back to them.

  ‘It’s just like the other tunnel,’ Nibulus whispered, ‘the one on the way in. You lose all sense of time.’

  ‘No, no, this is altogether stranger,’ Appa remarked. ‘That last tunnel was nothing more than a shaft cut straight through cold, dead stone. This one, however . . .’

  ‘There’s a presence,’ Wodeman stated. ‘Something ancient. No, not ancient – timeless. Fey or human, living or—’

  From a far place now came the sounds of fighting: the clash of arms, iron upon iron, bronze beating against leather and wood, the shouting of men and other things, the crackle of pyrotechnics, the roar of unknown creatures that may have crawled up from the underworld. Then that sound faded, lingering for but brief seconds on the border of hearing as the merest vestige of an echo. There was a remote, dream-like quality to it also, but this remoteness was one of time rather than of distance.