The Wanderer's Tale (26 page)

Moments later the air all around him crystallized into shards of ice. Methuselech stiffened, not breathing, not moving, his pain almost forgotten. The silence closed in, and the whole world stopped to listen. Something was watching him. The suspense seemed to last for hours, yet only for one heartbeat.

Then he heard the watcher approach . . .

The company did not stop. By the time they had emerged from the cleft to where Whitehorse awaited them, Appa, Paulus and a still-dazed Wodeman had caught up, having ridden up on the recently recovered Hammerhoof. Thus reunited, they continued their flight to the northern ridge as fast as the poor light allowed them. And when it became so dark that the path became impossible to see, still they did not stop; each member of the company dismounted and, with torches lit to see the ground at their feet, led their horses on by the rein.

For the first time since he had joined this quest, Bolldhe brought out his bull’s-eye lantern. Unlike most of the company’s equipment, this had not been provided by Wintus Hall; it was his own, and was possibly one of his most prized possessions. None of the others could make out what he was handling, had never seen this item before now. All they could hear was a rapid sawing sound, and then suddenly a powerful beam of light sprang out into the night, the like of which none there had ever seen before.

But despite their wonder at Bolldhe’s ‘little-magic’ they wasted no time in idle talk. At the head of the line now, Bolldhe shone the lantern’s beam ahead to light their way, and thus they continued. On they marched, over the ridge behind which, had it been lighter, they had been expecting to see their first view of the Northlands.

It was a journey full of anxiety, with many a backward glance, and a fear of what might lie ahead around each corner. They were now going inexorably downwards, plunging down narrow ravines and steep slopes into the dark, twisting passages of the mountains’ hidden valleys.

Eventually, exhaustion and mental strain overtook their fear, and Nibulus was forced to call a halt. They had arrived at a cirque, a hollow hemmed in by high, sloping walls that gave them some protection from the cold wind that was blowing from the North.

‘You’ve all done well to make it this far,’ Nibulus commended them as he listened to the lonely wind buffeting through the unseen passes and clefts around them. ‘We may as well camp where we are; I can’t see it getting any better.’

‘I don’t fancy camping
here
,’ Finwald muttered in spite of his exhaustion. ‘It feels like Death; just listen . . .’

They paused. Though the wind passed over them, it brought with it odd sounds that could never quite be discerned. There seemed to be voices, high and screaming, or bestial and muttering. The very air was alive with the uncanny cries of phantoms that flew through the secret places of this region. These mountains were unfriendly at the best of times, and had little mercy for outsiders; but here on the very threshold of the Northlands, they were no place to be at all.

Appa wagged his head madly in agreement. ‘’Tis an evil place still, I can sense, not a place any man should have to walk at all, at all . . .’

Let alone spend the night!
Gapp thought, choking down his fear as stoically as he could.

But they had little choice. Bolldhe, being more used to camping out alone in similar (if less disturbing) places, did not wait for the others, but unsaddled Zhang, spread out his bedroll on the most level piece of ground in the hollow, and set about preparing his and his horse’s rations.

Seeing no alternative, the others followed, and within half an hour, they had all settled down for the night.

Bolldhe and Paulus took the first watch.

Nibulus forced down the knot that was forming in his throat. During their race along the mountain path he had not had time for any thoughts other than flight. But now that they had put some distance between themselves and the horror back there, grief stole over him fully. He shook his head, dumbfounded, and cursed the ill chance that had claimed the life of the best man he had ever known. It was just so stupid! He should not,
could not
have been taken. It served no purpose that he could see, no purpose whatsoever.
Xilva
, he cried in some place deep in his soul,
you stupid foreign toe-rag, what am I supposed to do now, with you gone? And what the hell am I going to tell Phalopaeia?

Now as he pulled his bedroll over his head, a strange sound began to escape from him, one that no one had ever heard the Thegne make before now. It was a strangulated sound, one of constriction, of anguish – a sound that did not want to be made. But it was one that was escaping from him nevertheless.

The company chose not to hear it.

In the hooded light of the bull’s-eye lantern Bolldhe and the mercenary sat staring with wide eyes into the blackness that lurked just beyond the radius of illumination. At each sound emerging from the dark, their heads would snap round to investigate. But not one word passed between them.

Then Paulus said softly, ‘It’s a strange and wondrous device you bring with you.’

Bolldhe turned in surprise to stare at the hooded figure sitting just a few yards away. In the light from the lantern, only the sharp, beaky nose could be seen protruding from under the cowl. The mutilated eye was hidden in shadow, for which Bolldhe was thankful; this night contained enough horrors as it was.

Paulus said no more, continuing to stare out into the night, but Bolldhe noticed the mercenary’s hands flexing constantly on the pommel of his bastard-sword, a nifty weapon that could be wielded one- or two-handed. He realized he did not really know this taciturn Nahovian at all. Since the commencement of their quest, Paulus had kept his distance from the rest, more so even than had Bolldhe himself.

Bolldhe had to admit to himself he was intrigued. That was probably the first time the grim mercenary had spoken to anyone in the company without its being necessary, and it seemed odd that he should choose Bolldhe.

‘Wondrous device?’ he replied. ‘You mean the lantern?’

For nigh on five years he had carried it everywhere with him, and for Bolldhe, ever the pragmatist, it had proved more useful than any weapon. Small and lightweight but very tough, the bull’s-eye lantern had been wrought in Trondaran, the tiny, isolated mountain-kingdom of Jyblitt the Hauger King, and was consequently of a craftsmanship unequalled in all of Lindormyn.

Its cylindrical brass frame held a long thin rod of xienne – a light, yellow metal that burned with a fierce light when shaved – that could be plunged up and down into the top of the cylinder to whittle it and at the same time ignite the shavings through friction. The flame was shielded by specially treated silk stretched over the brass frame, and this lamp itself nestled inside a slightly larger leather sleeve attached into an intricately carved ivory handle. This sleeve was lined on the inside with highly polished silver mirrors that would, once the brass frame was snapped up into the sleeve, reflect and focus the flame’s light through just one hooded aperture, thus concentrating a powerful beam. Thus this flexible artefact could either be suspended sleeveless by its fine silver chain, lighting all around it, or sheathed in the sleeve so as to project a bright beam straight ahead.

Like so many other rare minerals found only in Trondaran, the source of xienne metal was a secret jealously guarded by Jyblitt’s subjects, and how Bolldhe had come by such a precious object was a traveller’s tale in itself.

But in answer to Paulus’s unexpected interest, Bolldhe simply replied, ‘Yes, it is rather handy, I suppose.’

Paulus did not make any immediate response. Minutes later, however, he spoke up again.

‘In the land I come from, we call such spirits Vardogr.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘That shade that cried out earlier,’ Paulus explained, ‘we call it Vardogr.’

‘I have heard the word,’ Bolldhe replied, ‘though I do not fully understand the meaning.’

Paulus glanced quickly at Bolldhe, his one sound eye reflecting as a single point of gold in the lantern’s light. ‘You
know
of this word? How so?’

Bolldhe shrugged, not wishing to prolong this conversation any longer than need be. ‘I heard rumours of such a shade when I was passing through your territory earlier this year.’

‘You have passed beneath the boughs of Vregh-Nahov?’ Paulus asked, surprised. Then he relapsed into silence once more.

At further length, and to Bolldhe’s surprise, the mercenary began to chant. It was a deep and sonorous incantation, almost discordant, yet rising and falling in such a way that made it difficult to judge whether it was a song or a poem. But the descant seemed to Bolldhe as mournful and haunting as the cry of gulls on the Shore of Death.

And it went like this:

Bolldhe did not comment and, after an awkward silence, Paulus muttered, ‘It is composed in the ancient tongue of my people, sung by our bards, the
akyn
, and maybe loses something in the translation.’

‘Yes,’ Bolldhe agreed dismissively. ‘Quite a lot, by the sound of it. I’ve never heard such rubbish in all my life.’

Paulus visibly flinched. A strange expression clouded his face, and he uttered not one further word that night.

S
O THEY CONTINUED DOGGEDLY
, pacing out the most painful steps upon that darkest stretch of their road so far. The Peladane’s mood was black and leaden, and emanated from him like a cloud of necrotizing spores to the others of the company, infecting them with its bane. Few words were uttered, the name of Methuselech mentioned not once, and only Whitehorse – lightened of his burden but darkened of heart – dared glance back towards those evil heights wherein still lay his master.

The next few days saw the bedraggled company’s slow but steady progress out of the Blue Mountains. Despite their expectations, they could not yet see the Northlands from here. The first day was spent leaping one by one over deep crevices and narrow fissures that fell away sheer into blackness below, and from which surged freezing currents of air and the distant echoes of rushing streams and the forlorn bleating of goats.

On the second day they travelled northwards along a narrow, knife-edged ridge of uneven rock that was split by frost and shaped by the wind of a thousand centuries. It felt like travelling along the chipped blade of a timber saw. The gales howling up at them threatened at any moment to pick them up and toss them down the slope. They all ensured their mounts trod very carefully, for once they started sliding down a slope like
that
, they would not stop till they reached the very bottom – however far that was.

In all that time their only company were the lammergeyers that wheeled high above against the deep blue sky, or the occasional line of saiga antelopes that clattered below along almost sheer rock-faces.

On and on they travelled, the next day hauling their reluctant steeds over great slabs of jagged granite or picking their way gingerly around wide patches of ice. All the time the raging wind sang in their ears and lashed their burning faces. But towards the end of the final day, after an hour of arduous scrambling up the shoulder of a particularly hazardous peak, they finally gained the summit and stared in wonder at their first, and now unexpected, view of the great, wild Northlands.

‘Ha!’ cried a jubilant Wodeman above the shrieking wind. ‘I told you we’d be seeing the Northlands by tonight.’

Nibulus steadied himself against the wind, clutching Hammer-hoof’s reins for support, and shouted back: ‘I seem to recall you saying that four days ago.’ Nevertheless, he slapped Wodeman heartily on the back.

It was the most stunning view any of them had seen yet in all their time traversing the Blue Mountains. Below the peak on which they stood, the mountain dropped away gradually in a long, unbroken slope until it reached the green, wooded foothills miles away. And beyond that extended the beautiful magnificence of the Northlands. Below those hills marking the boundary of the uplands sprawled the grey-green emptiness known as the Rainflats: mile after mile of moorland where a few solitary hillocks poked through an enshrouding blanket of mist like islands drowning in a cold grey sea. This greyness stretched all the way to a darker patch that lay almost on the horizon, and which, they guessed, was the great forest of Fron-Wudu, beneath whose boughs they were destined eventually to pass.