Neither Kuthy nor Elfswith actually slapped his hands against his face in horror. Nor did they draw their fingers down their cheeks in the customary gesture of frustration. Nevertheless, their manner said it all. Mauglad Yrkeshta, and indeed their entire reason for coming to this pit, was apparently no more.
Elfswith quietly but neatly summed up their feelings in one word.
‘Bugger!’ he said, and sighed deeply.
This was not the place to stand around talking, they knew. Here they were, a disarrayed bunch of wayfarers in a wide-open corridor high up in the mid-levels of Ymla-Myrrdhain, the Residence of Evil. All could sense the nearness of the Chamber of Drauglir and all were aware of the presence of hell about them. Nevertheless, there were things that needed to be said, questions that had to be answered and matters that were crying out to be cleared up before anyone was going anywhere.
So, briefly and without elaboration, the tales were told. Nibulus spoke of the Dead and the ermine-clad warrior that some believed to be Scathur. He told of the ‘desert man’ and his battle with the Fyr-Draikke, also the surprise arrival of Gapp and the Tregvans and the subsequent revelation concerning the flamberge. And finally the thieves’ ambush and the defection of Finwald from their company. To all of this both the newcomers listened carefully, not even interrupting once.
Thus it was that Kuthy and Elfswith finally learnt the true identity of Yggr, the Majestic Head – he who had held such strange sway over Wrythe and had done so for longer than anyone could remember, he who they themselves had known for many years and during all that time had appeared to age not a day. And, now that they came to think about it, he who just days ago had loomed over them while they lay naked and defenceless in a bath. It was a sobering thought.
But so too was the tale of Mauglad’s end. Sobering and bitter. When the story was done, Kuthy deemed it time to tell tales of his own.
‘Mauglad Yrkeshta was once the high necromancer of Vaagenfjord Maw,’ he enlightened them, ‘and seems to have ranked alongside Scathur in the hierarchy here. Well, perhaps not quite as high, for Mauglad was only a human – if you can count one as abominable as that human – whereas Scathur was . . . is of rawgrkind. One of the three original avatars of Olchor, Scathur was the warrior, the captain of Drauglir’s forces, while Mauglad presided over ritual and unholy worship. But in their different ways both were priests to Drauglir, for to serve the Rawgr is to worship him.
‘As the D’Archangel, Scathur was naturally always going to be number one; rawgrs have much greater power than ordinary people. However, humans – especially ones of Mauglad’s particular quality – have a potential intelligence and discipline beyond that of any of the rawgr race. And if our sort can lay our hands on their power somehow . . . well, who can say?’
The company now looked at the soldier of fortune and his bardic companion in a very new light. This was the first time the strange duo had revealed even a hint of their purposes, and the Peladane’s group were not sure quite how to react.
‘And you? You seek this power?’ Wodeman questioned them darkly.
‘We seek answers,’ Elfswith responded (rather evasively, some there thought). ‘Who knows what secrets might be revealed if only we could get to talk with one possessing such power over the Dead.’
‘Life and death,’ Bolldhe put in. ‘Breaking the chains of this world and of time. Your business, right?’
Kuthy looked at Bolldhe in surprise. ‘Finwald told you I said that, did he? I’m rather disappointed in him; I thought he’d be better at keeping secrets.’
‘He tries,’ Appa commented.
‘Well, our concern was never really with Melhus as such. We left that to you lot. It was always Wrythe that interested us.’
‘It’s only in the last week that we’ve realized the two are one and the same,’ Elfswith added.
‘There’s always been that connection, though,’ Nibulus pointed out, ‘ever since Lord Bloodnose decreed that Wrythe was to be the caretaker of Melhus.’
‘The caretaker?’ Gapp interrupted. ‘That’s a name we’ve been hearing a lot about recently, isn’t it?’
‘Right,’ Nibulus agreed. ‘Meth— I mean Mauglad, described Scathur as the caretaker.’
‘And as the tall captain,’ Gapp added, then lowered his voice to a hollow hiss, in imitation of Mauglad: ‘Let no’ the tall captain gain th’ sswor’ . . .’
‘Not hard to guess which sword he was talking about,’ Bolldhe said. The weapon he now bore was the tulwar he had confiscated from Finwald, but Flametongue he still kept with him, strapped securely to his back. This he now unfastened and, though they had seen it before, he held it out for Kuthy and Elfswith to examine.
‘Our only weapon against the Rawgr, according to Finwald,’ Bolldhe continued, ‘though coming from him, that hardly tells us much.’
The eyes of Kuthy and Elfswith sparkled, icy blue and yellow, as they looked upon the flamberge.
‘Mmm,’ said Kuthy, ‘so what’s your plan then? You still intend to use it?’
‘What’s yours?’ Nibulus cut in. ‘You still haven’t explained why you’re here.’
‘That’s because we don’t know,’ Elfswith stated flatly. ‘Not yet, anyhow. But we will when the time’s right. Always the way, isn’t it, Kuthy?’
‘For certes,’ Kuthy agreed. ‘And if the likes of Scathur – and maybe even Mauglad, for that matter – are still about—’
‘Then Vaagenfjord Maw is clearly the place to be these days,’ Elfswith finished for him, and playfully swatted Nibulus with his tail.
The Peladane and his group could do nothing but stare at these two most enigmatic characters. Devil-red in the lava lamp’s light and appearing in this place as though they belonged here, it was as if the whole thing were just a game to them. The questers, on the other hand, had endured so very much to get from Nordwas to here. They were dizzy with exhaustion from their journey, traumatized from their horrendous experiences in the Maw, sick with fear and soul-darkened with the very real anticipation of death. The only spirit that remained within them was that of sheer dogged determination; there was no longer even the slightest vestige of adventurousness or curiosity. They were here simply because they had to be.
Yet in front of them stood these two singularities, a legendary hero of men on the one side and his half-huldre partner on the other, both apparently tagging along out of nothing more than interest.
It was left to Wodeman, who had held his tongue throughout, to sum it all up: ‘It’s by strange chance that we all come together in this place, so far along our journey, to become one band just before the end. And despite all that’s passed between us, I don’t believe there’s one among us who isn’t glad that we’ve found ourselves together now. I’d hazard a guess that you three will prove more than handy in a fight and probably still have many more surprises up your capacious sleeves to marvel us with. And if we can find our two absent friends along the way, then none of us could ask for more, for we’ll then be as ready as ever we can to fight the Rawgr.
‘But for now we simply can’t continue any longer without sleep. We have to find some place where we can rest and regain our strength before the final confrontation. Come, Master Wintus, lead us somewhere where we can get our heads down safely for a few hours. I for one am absolutely shattered.’
The devilry was stronger up here. The higher they ascended, the denser it became. From the lowest pits of Ymla-Myrrdhain it rose like a red steam, snaking its way in wispy feelers up the stairwells and through murder holes, gaining more and more substance as it came, until finally it could rise no further. Here in the highest places it coagulated into a thick and choking evil that swam in cackling spirals around its master’s chambers.
This was all a bit much for the Tyvenborgers, it has to be said. Despite their unique and redoubtable expertise they were still, when it came down to it, nothing more than thieves, and as such they were here for loot, plain and simple. They may have been prepared for the ‘pretty
weird stuff’ Eorcenwold had promised them, but up here, where the air whispered with phantasms and throbbed with malice, their trusted leader’s sworn affirmation that there was nothing alive to hurt them was now gravely brought into question.
They and their captive guide Finwald were currently heading along a corridor that seemed to go on forever and had a palpably vice-like quality to it. It must have been forty feet high or more but was so narrow only two could walk abreast. The lurid marble of the previous levels had given way to a kind of green-black obsidian which swallowed almost all the light from their lamps so that they now stole along like true burglars in the night, with naught but the pathetically diminished glow of their more powerful lanterns bobbing will-o’-wisp-like down the passage. Down this mere fault-line through the obsidian they moved as silently as their skill would allow, but lightness of tread counted for little here, as every tiny noise was sharpened and amplified so that they sounded like an army of metallic lobsters clicking their way along a glass tube.
Finwald had known better times. The mage-priest’s arm was clutched tight by the giant Klijjver in a grip that only a team of oxen could prise open. And just like a team of oxen returning after a hard day’s work did the herd giant smell, rank with multitudinous layers of dried sweat forming an extra shell over his already tough hide.
As if this were not bad enough, Khurghan had taken the added precaution of chaining Grini to their captive. The feral Boggart sat upon Finwald’s shoulders, growling down at him with his rancid hairy legs wrapped around his neck.
But despite his parlous situation Finwald was beginning to feel in control once more. A captive he might be, but as far as he was concerned his captors were doing just what he wanted them to. They had already almost completed the task he had planned for them: because of their thievish expertise and greed (and his long years of research) they were drawing inexorably closer to the heart of Vaagenfjord Maw, to the very place which Finwald had dreamt of for so long.
And then we’ll see who the prisoners are, he thought secretly.
Stinking air was exhaled up the passageway towards them, carrying with it a tomb coldness and an ethereal panting sound as of a great ghostly hound. Finwald recalled the story told at the Moot by the soldier of Wrache: an account of the black dog that had ravaged his home village which some believed to be the spirit of Drauglir himself.
Well, Finwald was not sure what he now believed; he was not even sure he was hearing the sound at all. But below it could be heard, but only by those perceptive enough, what sounded like a cultish like chanting. With every step bringing them closer to this menace, fear oozed out of every pore in the thieves’ skin, feeding Finwald’s sense of mastery with each warm salty drop. Now Finwald could hear the rustling of weapons being readied: the singing slide of blade from sheath; the loosening of throwing weapons from their fastenings; the jangle of flail-chains; the muted ratcheting of a crossbow’s gear wheels; the soft steady click of a dragon tooth into a gun chamber.
The anticipation, the fear, he too could feel it. Almost there, Finwald repeated over and over in his mind. Almost there.
And eventually this longest of corridors did come to an end. But as its narrow confines opened into some enormous space beyond, they could only wonder at exactly what manner of place the passage had delivered them to.
Gone were the glass-smooth, geometric surfaces of earlier. Here there were no regular walls or floor or ceiling. It was more like an immense natural cavern, though there was nothing natural about the aura that pervaded this place. A sense of perversion and wrongness emanated from the hidden midst of the vast cavern. It was a place set aside from the rest of the world, a separate dimension it seemed, out of place with the time and reality they were familiar with. At no other point during all their time on this island had any of the bold thieves felt more like intruders.
But an altogether different emotion showed itself in the face of the priest. Those big black eyes of his visibly swelled in size, quivering slightly at the edges.
So here I am at last, he said to himself in solemn wonder. The gateway to the underworld!
There was not much to see for their strangely diminished lamps could illuminate their immediate surroundings only, but they were nevertheless aware of a dim light of some unknown colour. It swirled about upon the winds of ether, here and there, near or far, high up above or way down below, teasingly revealing parts of the cavern to them for just seconds at a time before moving on. In the higher places it illumined outcrops or perches that no stair or passage led to. Down below could be seen walkways and ledges that at first glance appeared to teem with armies of underworld dwellers, but if stared at closely turned out to be empty. Invisible things could be heard scuttling around, the sound of their scraping appendages, taloned pinions and popping suckers hinting at entire legions of creatures that crawled, clawed or slithered their way about wherever they chose.
From here, more strongly than ever before, emerged that death-cold black wind, howling out of the vast pit, bringing with it a stench of corruption and sickness. From here too could be heard, more manifestly, that eldritch breathing, panting and chanting.
At exactly the point where the passage opened into this place, the floor dropped away towards the depths. It sloped steeply down about a hundred yards or so until it reached a level but narrow ledge, nothing more than an unbalustrated platform of stone, that curved right around the pit and disappeared into the darkness on either side beyond the reach of the swirling light.
Without hesitation, for he was keen to get a move on, Eorcenwold hissed out his orders. This was all just as the mage-priest had shown them in the diagram he had sketched earlier. The thieves immediately busied themselves with straps and slender ropes, then divided themselves into three groups. While Oswiu, Klijjver, Grini and Brecca stayed behind to guard Finwald, the two other groups without hesitation slid down to the ledge and there separated. Eorcenwold and his sister led Khurghan and Dolen around to the left, Cuthwulf led the rest to the right.
From where he stood Finwald could just make out the two clusters of lamp beams widening in an arc as the groups headed their separate ways. At first the lights would occasionally pick out mysterious shapes but soon they became too dim to discern anything.
Back at the top of the slope nobody spoke a word. As the minutes passed the air around them grew colder, crystallizing their sweat, and both thieves and captive alike grew more agitated. Finwald became a little disconcerted at the feeling (or rather lack of feeling) in the arm that was still gripped, with increasing firmness, by the herd giant. He was also becoming decidedly more disconcerted by Grini’s noxious presence at the back of his neck.
The tension was getting to all of them.
Within minutes, however, Cuthwulf’s group could be seen returning from the right. They reached the bottom of the slope and called up to Oswiu in urgent whispers, gesturing back to where they had just been. Finwald did not understand a word of their report but was reassured to hear no increased fear in Cuthwulf’s voice. Moreover, they did not appear to be running away from anything, and that alone had to be a good sign.
So far so good, Finwald comforted himself.
Now, while Oswiu was left all alone holding the ropes at the head of the slope, Grini was finally unchained from Finwald, and together with Klijjver and Brecca, they made their way down towards the ledge.
As they scrambled down the slope, Finwald began to feel panic taking hold of him and expected at any minute to lose all control and break into screaming convulsions. The ropes felt thread-thin and ready to snap, and the lumpy uneven rock beneath his soles shot pulses of horrible power up his legs and into his brain. It occurred to him that he was surely sliding with the other sinners down into the pit of hell itself.
But that steel in his character that had been with him for so many years managed to hold firm, and within moments he felt his feet upon the ledge. There he paused with the others, in total silence, keeping away from the edge and refusing to
even think about what was down in that pit which began just inches away.
A short while later the beams of several lanterns could be seen reaching out along the path to the left. Slowly they came closer, so slowly that those who bore them might have been pushing their way through deep water. Minutes later the second group rejoined them, and there was a brief whispered exchange between the two brothers.
Eorcenwold pointed back along the left-hand path, sounding disappointed and yet at the same time noticeably relieved. Cuthwulf, on the other hand, sounded highly excited but at the same time horribly nervous as he gestured back towards the right.
Immediately, the entire group turned and moved off towards the right. There was a noticeable quickness in their pace as they hastened off to whatever destination Fate had in store for them, for they could all sense the nearness of their goal. The ledge grew narrower and more slippery, its uneven surface bulging erratically underfoot. Slender twisted pillars of amethyst thrust from the very edge of the pit and spiralled up into the darkness above. Whenever they passed close to one of these it would glow from within with a sickly violet, and throb and animate. At one point Khurghan inadvertently pricked one with the tip of his assegai, and instantly it contracted away from him with a hiss and shuddered like a prodded jellyfish.
Soon they had rounded perhaps a quarter of the circumference of this huge cavern and came to the point that Cuthwulf’s group had reached. Finwald peered hard out into the yawning space . . . then his heart almost bounced into his throat as he finally laid eyes upon what he had been searching for.
It was a walkway, similar to the one on which they now stood, about two foot wide and just as slick and perilous. But this one jutted straight out across the gaping void and, even more worryingly, appeared suspended without any support from either above or below. The thieves ran their lantern beams slowly along its undulating length, picking out every bulge and swelling, until they lighted upon the rounded platform at its far end. There Cuthwulf and his group pointed out the zircon statue of a winged and horned rawgr, lurking like a sick murderer in the night, sprouting it seemed from the very stuff of which the walkway was formed.
A Fire in the North Page 45