Talus and the Frozen King (4 page)

Locked together, Bran and his assailant spun towards the far wall. Talus began to rise, only to be pulled back down by the long-limbed brother beside him. The lad with the green eyes was standing too, but a curt gesture from Tharn made him thump back down to the floor, resigned simply to watching like the others.

The two combatants continued to grapple. It was a strange contest. Limbs were flexed, grunts were expelled, but no actual blows were traded. They circled the room like dancers, locked together. Despite Bran's apparent advantage of weight, they seemed perfectly matched in strength.

'Pull him down, Fethan!' called the youngster. If he couldn't join in, at least he could shout his support.

'Arak!' warned Tharn.

The lad hugged his knees. His eyes were wide with excitement.

Stumbling sideways, Bran and Fethan came close to a stone slab lying askew on the floor.

The slab was clearly designed to cover the square pit beneath it, but it had been left askew and the pit was partially uncovered. Talus had already guessed what was stored down there.

Bran tried to trip Fethan, but the Creyak man resisted. Distracted, he lost his grip on Bran's axe. Bran seized the advantage, pulling briefly back from his opponent and raising his weapon ready to strike.

But, in retreating, Bran planted his foot on the stone slab. It tipped, throwing him backwards. His left leg plunged into the pit, raising a huge splash of water. He scrabbled, desperate to free himself, but he was stuck half in and half out of the pit, his axe trapped beneath his body.

The youngster could no longer contain himself. He jumped up and waved his arms. 'Kill him, Fethan! Kill the killer!'

Fethan dropped to his knees and yanked at something dangling round his neck on a leather thong. It was a bonespike. The little weapon flashed in the firelight as Fethan thrust it hard against Bran's throat. Bran froze. A tiny bead of blood gathered at the tip of the bonespike.

Silence descended on the room.

Despite his desperate position, Bran was coiled and ready to turn on his attacker. If he tried it, he would certainly die. The tiny movements in his throat increased the pressure of the smooth, ivory spike on his neck. The red bead there was gradually swelling. With detached curiosity, Talus wondered how long it would be before Bran's blood started to gush.

Talus looked at Tharn. The son of the dead king was staring right back at him.

Talus rose to his feet. He stretched out his hands, palms down.

'I ask you to forgive my friend,' he said. 'He acts before he thinks.'

'He is a senseless idiot who deserves to die.'

'Perhaps. But he also happens to be a fisherman of great skill and experience. This might interest you: I see you keep limpets for bait.'

The sudden change of subject confused Tharn, just as Talus had hoped it would. The other men around the fire glanced at each other uncertainly. Fethan glowered.

By way of explanation, Talus indicated the water-filled pit into which Bran had plunged.

Jostling against Bran's submerged leg were hundreds of shellfish.

'Bran is very good with boats. He knows both pole-fishing and the spear. He has also learned the way of nets, is that not right, Bran?'

Bran nodded as best he could without impaling himself on the bonespike. The tension was leaving his body as his fury ebbed away.

'What are ... nets?' said Tharn.

Talus smiled. 'Perhaps we have something to trade after all. Bran, and ... Fethan—I believe that is your name? Please, stop fighting and join us again. Drink more of this delicious broth.'

Slowly, Bran lifted his right hand, his good hand, the hand in which he'd previously been holding his axe. Then he raised his left, the one forever curled into a useless fist. Talus recognised the effort of will it took his companion to do this, and respected him for it. Now both Bran's hands were raised: the universal gesture of surrender. But Fethan was having none of it. Raising his shoulders, he increased the pressure of the bonespike on the skin of Bran's throat. His mouth was contorted into a ferocious grin. He looked deranged.

'Fethan,' said Tharn. 'Let him go.'

For a long moment, Fethan did nothing. Then, with a sudden, swift flourish, he hung the bonespike back round his neck and rejoined his companions by the fire.

A low sigh passed round the circle. The tension drained out of the room. The lad with the restless green eyes nudged his black-faced neighbour, whispered something in his ear. The other boy didn't respond. If anything, he looked half asleep.

Bran clambered out of the pit. The furs on his left leg were sodden.

'I'm sorry,' he said, addressing Tharn.

Without speaking, Tharn pointed to the gap in the circle where Bran had been sitting. Bran took his place there and stared at the flames in the hearth. He looked defeated.

Shells rattled as Mishina left his post at the door. He limped up to Talus and jabbed him with the end of his trinket-adorned staff.

'When I first saw your shambling friend—this fishing man who calls himself Bran—I thought him a bear,' the shaman said. 'His behaviour in the house of the king shows that is exactly what he is: a red-haired and angry bear. Be glad of the mercy of the king-to-be, for that is the only reason he is still alive.'

'We are grateful,' Talus agreed.

'And you? You are no fishing man. What is your name, and what do you bring to Creyak?

Apart from trouble, that is.'

'I bring you no trouble. Nor does my friend, who is not a bear but just an ordinary man. As am I.'

'Then what do you offer? Speak well: you are speaking for your life.'

Talus considered his options and decided the moment had come to introduce himself properly. In a single, fluid movement, he stood and opened his arms. He made his voice very loud.

'I bring you tales! I bring you stories from now and to be and ago. Where there are hearts to beat, I bring the adventure to make them race. Where there are ears to hear, I bring the music of song. My tales may be long or short, but they will never be tall. I bring laughter and sorrow, wonder and despair, tragedy and triumph. I am the word-that-wanders, the riddle-that-rhymes.' He executed a deep bow. 'I am Talus, the bard.'

Tharn drew back his arm and threw the knife he'd been twirling. It flew across the room and landed in a far corner with a clatter.

'Bards and fishermen!' he roared. 'The king of Creyak is dead! Show me you did not kill him, or I will kill you myself!'

Talus bowed again. 'I will show you what you ask for. But first, may I ask a question?'

Tharn was shaking from head to toe. His hands compressed into fists, relaxed, compressed again.

'My question is this,' said Talus before Tharn could protest. 'Tharn, you have already had your father's body taken to the burial cairn. Do you intend to begin the funeral rites today?'

'Of course!' said Tharn. 'My father is dead. His journey to the afterdream starts at once.'

'Mmm.' Talus stepped out of the circle. He started pacing up and down the room. 'It is just that, before the king's journey begins, I believe there is a story here that should be heard.

Unfortunately that story is in knots. Before it can be told, it must be untied.'

'My father's story is over.'

'But that of his murderer is not.'

'It will be. When you are dead.'

'And if Bran and I are not the ones who killed the king?'

'Then it will remain a mystery.'

'Does that not bother you?'

'No. It is not my concern. Whoever killed the king will receive his punishment when his own life ends and he enters the afterdream himself, as every man must when he closes the last of his eyes and steps through the smallest door. There he will face a punishment I cannot comprehend. My concern now is to send my father to the afterdream, and to become king in his place.'

In roaming around the room, Talus had contrived to end up near the furthest alcove from the throne. He stopped there and picked up the knife Tharn had thrown. Holding it by the blade, he advanced towards the dead king's son.

'I disagree with you,' Talus said. In the circle, the stoutest of the brothers gasped. Talus handed over the knife and resumed his pacing. 'There is a tale to be told here, one that only the king can tell.'

'A dead man has no voice,' said Tharn.

'Your father will speak, but not in words.' Talus beamed. 'Come with me now.'

'Come? Where?'

'To the cairn.'

'For what purpose?'

'To examine the body of the king. The dead do speak, you see, and your father is no exception. Are you not curious to hear what he has to say?'

This was the moment. Tharn would either swallow Talus's bait or swim away from his line. Or kill him on the spot. Talus wondered if the king's eldest son knew he was being charmed. If he knew that the bard was a fisherman too.

Everything all depended on how curious he was.

Every moment of every day, Talus's thoughts buzzed with questions. He knew it was an unusual trait; most people he'd met moved through their lives like leaves on a breeze, content to let the wind blow them wherever it chose. Content not to ask why. Not Talus.

Sometimes, the only way to release the pressure in his head was to share his thoughts with those around him. In his rare moments of whimsy, he imagined his curiosity like a swarm of bees, spilling from his mouth to carry his endless questions out into the world.

It was only natural, then, that he should have become a bard. Stories were all about curiosity, after all. Being a bard allowed Talus to take people down mysterious paths to unknown destinations. And whenever a new tale spun itself out of his mouth—seemingly with a life of its own—Talus felt a wonder unmatched by anything else.

Being a bard also gave him freedom to travel. Most settlements welcomed a wandering teller of tales. People liked to hear news of other lands, and they liked the comfort of a familiar story told well—or the excitement of a new one told to thrill. In his time, Talus's feet had taken him far across the world. This wasn't the only journey he'd made in his life.

If Talus's thoughts were bees, Tharn looked well and truly stung. The watching men exchanged their thoughts in hushed voices, but Talus paid them little heed. His attention was on the king-to-be.

'You have earned yourself the right to live a little longer,' Tharn said at last. 'We will go to the cairn. We will see if this ... this bard is as clever as he thinks.'

Talus allowed himself to relax.

There was a flurry of activity as the brothers rose from the fire, reformed their cordon around Talus and Bran and steered them out of the house. Bran plodded with his shoulders slumped and his head down. Talus walked with him, tolerating the jabs and nudges delivered by the shaman whenever their pace slowed.

'It does not surprise me that you walk slowly, bard,' said Mishina, poking Talus with his staff.

'You are walking towards your death.' 

'I do not fear death,' said Talus. 'And I am used to walking.'

'Enjoy it while you can. Your journey will be a short one.'

'No. I have a long way yet to travel.'

The shaman continued to taunt him, but Talus ignored him. His thoughts were flying again, this time travelling backwards into the past to a very different place ...

In a southern land where a vast desert met a great river, Talus had once met a tribe of people—the biggest tribe he'd ever encountered. The desert people had planted crops in vast irrigated fields and raised extraordinary stone structures towards the sky. It was like nothing Talus had seen anywhere else in the world. Its beauty had seduced him.

The desert realm was ruled by a warrior queen called Tia. When Talus was first brought before her as an interloper, he thought she would kill him. Instead, she listened to what he had to say. She enjoyed hearing Talus's tales of other lands, and allowed him to stay. Over time, they became friends.

Talus was especially interested in the desert people's attitude to the afterlife. They'd developed the art of preserving bodies after death: they drained blood, removed organs, wrapped skin and entombed corpses in dry desert tombs, all to maintain the body's integrity when it finally entered the next world.

So much effort, so much belief. Yet still they had no answer to the one question that had confounded Talus for most of his life.

Is the afterlife real?

His curiosity on this subject fascinated Tia. Her attention flattered him. She admitted to finding him strange (most people Talus had met seemed to share that opinion) but she never judged him. Instead, she responded to his inquiries with questions of her own. Talus loved questions.

'If there is no afterlife,' Tia said once when he'd finished articulating his doubts on the subject. 'Where do people go when they die?'

'Perhaps nowhere,' Talus replied. 'When a tree falls, it simply lies there, slowly rotting into the ground until it is gone. Perhaps it is the same for us.'

'There are those who would say that, just like people, trees have spirits. If that is so, then where do the tree-spirits go?'

'Perhaps they rot too.'

'So all men who claim they can speak with the spirits of the dead are lying? All the priests of my temple, all the shamans of all the many lands you claim to have seen, they are all frauds?'

'No. I think priests and shamans believe in what they do—believe very strongly, in fact. But everything they do can be explained in other ways. Before they a shaman can run with the spirits he must first beat drums, or descend into holes in the ground and breathe the smoke of the fire he has set there, or he eats a certain kind of toadstool ... all these rituals are designed to bend the shaman's mind and make him see things that are not there.'

'But what if they are there?'

'I am not saying they are not.'

'Then what are you saying?'

'That I have never seen them.'

Their discussions went on day after day. The hot sun baked their backs. In Tia's company, Talus discovered a fellowship he'd never known could exist, and a kind of peace. Tia didn't agree with everything he said. But she understood why he was saying it.