Indeed, none of the company could bring himself around to fully believe it. In this ancient, fey wood, crouching together in the dark beneath the rowan’s boughs, it all seemed more like a horrendous dream. Furthermore, a dream that had not yet run its full course.
Nibulus subsided a little, but was still angry. ‘Just tell me this,’ he said to the Tivor. ‘Why did you then hold back what you knew? Just what are your purposes, eh? We’ve lost our horse and all our baggage, we’ve got no idea where Wodeman is, or even if he’s still alive . . . We’re trapped in the land of our worst enemy, and we don’t even know what that enemy is, for Forn’s sake!’
But Kuthy did not answer; he had become absolutely silent, and though he still sat cross-legged upon the ground, his bearing had suddenly tautened. Instantly everyone froze, and they too strained their ears to hear whatever it was that had moved out there in the deepening dusk.
Footsteps, furtive, purposeful, coming their way . . .
A whining snort . . .
A familiar voice: ‘They are the Elder Spirits. The ghosts of the Great Ones who trod the world before Man awoke. Ancient enemies of the gods.’
Wodeman floated towards them through the darkness of the woods, moving strangely, silently, a dream-like expression upon his visage. Behind him came the slough-horse, walking with uncharacteristic quietness, in a way that suggested some great oppression of mind.
The company found themselves unable to move. Still closer the spectral newcomers came.
The spell was broken by Bolldhe. ‘Zhang!’ he breathed, and crawled out from under the roof of branches towards his friend. The horse backed off snorting, and would not allow himself to be touched.
Wodeman slumped to his knees and crawled groggily in among the others. They shied away, not quite sure what it was that had joined them. Paulus’s breath rattled in his throat, and his sword was drawn.
‘What’s going on?’ Nibulus asked cautiously. ‘Wodeman?’
But Wodeman remained as he was, and he did not speak. If it was indeed Wodeman. He looked like the wraith of his normal self.
‘Zhang’s all right,’ Bolldhe informed them, though he could not get near enough to lay a hand upon the terrified beast. ‘And it looks like our baggage is all here. I think.’
Nibulus hurriedly crawled away from the silent shaman and leapt up to check that his armour was all in place. Eventually the two of them managed to calm the troubled horse down, and reined him in. After doing so they both relaxed a little, and felt a lot more comfortable with their new visitants in the night.
‘Make a fire,’ Nibulus ordered. ‘This place is scaring our priests.’
‘No fire,’ Wodeman mumbled. ‘Not yet.’ He was on the point of collapse, but refused to succumb to his exhaustion just yet.
‘What happened?’ Finwald asked the shaman in a whisper. ‘Where did you get to? Is the Giant still out there?’
‘. . . Sent earthpower through the forest,’ Wodeman explained. ‘Shook the treetops a mile away. Drew the Giant off, sent it away . . . but only just. Didn’t like it . . . They didn’t like it, Erce magic in their realm, the realm of huldre . . . Tried to send it off after the thieves, but they got away, headed north. They’re good, that lot . . .’
Again he trailed off, not sure what he was saying, or even what he meant to say. Then he simply stopped, and went to sleep in that same kneeling posture, utterly drained by his recent elemental confrontation.
The others were not sure what to make of any of this.
‘The ghosts of the Great Ones . . .’ Finwald mused.
‘Hmn, didn’t look much like a ghost to me,’ Nibulus opined. ‘Altogether too substantial, I’d say.’
‘Mind you, there was something strange, now I come to think about it,’ Finwald said. ‘I’m not positive, but I think I could see right through its legs – the trees, I mean. Like a parallactic shift . . . or then again maybe not. But in any case I’m sure I could see the trees through it.’
‘Almost as if it weren’t really there,’ Kuthy agreed. ‘I know what you mean. The first time I saw the Giants, I experienced an overwhelming feeling of sadness, one that sprang up from nowhere . . .’
‘You’re joking!’ cried Nibulus.
‘I was a fair way off, mind,’ the old adventurer added. ‘They knew nothing of my presence. But I remember feeling that somehow it was all wrong. From the sagas we hear that their sort died out at the ending of the first days, and as I watched them march over their domain I felt that they shouldn’t be there – here. And maybe they aren’t, really.’
‘So what are they?’ Finwald persisted.
‘I can only guess,’ Kuthy speculated. ‘A final vestige of the greatness they once were, perhaps – like ghosts, in a way, unable to understand that their time is up.’
‘Horseshite,’ the Peladane spat. ‘Did you see the size of that hole it made in the ground? I could have used it for my own bear-pit! Ghosts, you say? I don’t think so.’
Then Paulus spoke. It was not often he gave his opinions, or indeed said much at all, so whenever he did it caused the whole company to pause. ‘I suppose the Giants must be huldres, then,’ he said mockingly. (Nibulus groaned.) ‘After all, this is the land of the huldre, is it not?’
It was now completely dark, and they could see nothing of the mercenary’s face. But his tone was unmistakable.
‘Yes,’ he went on, ‘as you assured us, plenty of huldres, small, sweet and charming . . .’ He hacked and spat at the soldier of fortune in loathing. ‘If I did not need you to get me out of this accursed place, I would push my blade down your throat and into your heart.’
Cheated of the sport he had been craving for so long, the Nahovian drew his coat about himself and gnawed upon his own bile.
For once, the others agreed with him. ‘You lied to us,’ Bolldhe put in. ‘You lied to us about the Giants, you lied to us about the huldres, you lied to us about that tunnel being secret. You just can’t stop lying! Hell, I think I’ll join Paulus when it comes to carving you up!’
‘And why in Cuna’s name did you abandon us just before those thieves turned up?’ Finwald joined in. ‘You knew full well something was going to happen, didn’t you?’
But Kuthy Tivor was not going to let these whelps talk to him like that. ‘I go off on my own when it suits me,’ he said. ‘Just like your shaman here, just like you, Bolldhe. I didn’t know anything was going to happen, though with you lot dancing amongst the daisies and lighting fires in the night, maybe I should have guessed it would. If you think so ill of me, then go and find the northern portal without me.
‘But this I will say to you for nothing: the only traitorous deed any of us has witnessed on this day, my friends, is that of our dear Bolldhe. Or were my eyes playing tricks on me when I came out of the woods and saw our noble hero here standing over Appa with a voulge in his hands? What was that all about, Bolldhe, eh? One of those quaint old folk dances you picked up on your travels? Or were you trying to impress them with a conjuring trick?’
It was now Bolldhe’s turn to make excuses. Immediately he was conscious of the blood rushing to his face, pinning a rosette of guilt onto his unburnt cheek, and he instinctively put a hand up to his face. What was that all about, indeed? he asked himself; he still was not sure what had got into him.
Then he realized that it was too dark here for the others to see him. He hated the fearful darkness of these woods, but he had to admit it was now saving his bacon. He lowered his hand, and instead cleared his throat – several times – before speaking.
‘I was playing for time,’ he mumbled apologetically, then cursed himself for the feebleness of his reply. He cleared his throat again, then continued in a louder voice.
‘I had a religious maniac holding a soul-sucking dagger at my face, and it looked like any second you, Nibulus, were going to start a fight! In fact you said so, remember? Damn, I can’t believe you did that to me! “Be prepared to elbow that bastard in the guts, Bolldhe,” you said.
Pel’s Bells, what a leader! All very well for you to say that in your position . . .’
‘Don’t talk bollocks,’ Nibulus sneered. ‘We saw what happened; there was no knife at your eye after that cultist shoved you towards us.’
‘Absolutely,’ Finwald agreed with his friend, his voice dark with accusation, ‘You were back amongst us then, no worse off than we. Why didn’t you stand and fight? I can’t believe you went and grabbed Appa like that, and dragged him back to your new friends. I told you, Appa, we should never have brought him along in the first place.’
Everyone waited to hear what the old priest had to say. But if Bolldhe had expected him to come to his aid, he was disappointed.
‘I’m afraid,’ Appa began gravely, ‘that I have to agree with you, my dear brother. He is unreliable, and not to be trusted. I have stood up for you all along, Bolldhe, and tried so very hard to understand you. But time and time again you have failed us. I really feel sorry for you, I do. What aching loneliness there must be in your existence. For that is how your life will always be: a long and empty road towards death, without partner, lover, family or friend.
‘But any choice in this matter is out of my hands. I’m duty-bound by my god to see that you do this task, and that’s what I’ll do, even if I can’t understand for the life of me why the Lord Cuna would choose you of all people. Finwald, Bolldhe must continue with us.’
There was a long, stifling pause. A lonely wind sighed through the higher branches, and a pine-cone thudded dully onto the needle-carpeted ground a short way off. This really was serious, they all knew, if even Appa had turned against Bolldhe.
Then Wodeman suddenly breathed in sharply and spoke up. His voice was still frail and distant, so they were not sure if he were talking to them in his sleep. ‘Bolldhe alone saved all our hides back in Nym-Cadog’s prison. Strange, such is the way of those favoured by the gods: sometimes they’re true, sometimes not. But the skalds tell us that a hero is made not by the way he has lived, but only in the manner of his death. Bolldhe may fail us again and again, but if he’s true right at the end, then he’s true forever.’
He was right, of course, they could not deny it – even if he was still asleep. As Appa put it: ‘In all the old sagas, the heroes only become heroes by a great and noble death. They can be the lowest type of rat all their life, but if at the end they die a glorious death, the bards will sing their praises till the end of time. Maybe that is all that is left to you, Bolldhe.’
‘Well, at least you’re all still alive,’ Kuthy went on, on a lighter note. ‘If Bolldhe had fought alongside you, I imagine you’d all be glutting the ravens by now. Maybe Fate took a hand, and maybe Bolldhe was doing his will.’
(Like hell! Bolldhe thought.)
Then Nibulus spoke.
‘I can’t prove anything, Bolldhe, and I don’t give a toss about what the skalds say. But I’ll tell you this: in my opinion, you’re not even up to the standard of a traitor. I do not want you at my back any longer. As far as I’m concerned, you’re faithless. We cannot trust you any more than the Tivor here—’
‘Thank you very much!’ Kuthy exclaimed indignantly.
‘You’re both birds of a feather. Rotten apples. From now until we leave this accursed land, you walk up ahead, where I can see you. And when we are on the other side of the mountains, you can leave with Kuthy, not us.’
There was absolute silence now in the woods: no wind, no furtive rustling, and even Bolldhe’s skin had ceased its snap, crackle and pop. It felt as if even the gods were listening. Bolldhe could say no more. He curled up into a tight ball, and cursed everything in his life. True, the Peladane was young, and apt to change his mind; maybe Bolldhe would be forgiven. Certainly the old priest would not let it go that easily. But for now Bolldhe just cursed; cursed the night, cursed Eotunlandt and cursed himself. He hated this place. It was close, and dark, and fey. Anything could be lurking out there. They could not leave the forest because of the Giants, and he was stuck here under this tree with a group of people who hated him. And if they ever made it out of Eotunlandt, what then? Could he survive on his own in the frozen North?
It was one of Bolldhe’s darkest hours. He envied Nibulus for his sense of honour, loyalty and camaraderie, even if he himself did hate ‘all that’.
‘Anyway,’ he muttered to anyone who cared, ‘I couldn’t have fought alongside you against the thieves; they stole my sword.’
A second of even deeper silence passed, then Finwald yelled, ‘They WHAT?’
SIXTEEN
Eotun Steps Are
What You Take
‘IT’S THEM, I TELL YOU! NO doubt about it; I can practically smell them, even from this distance.’
Finwald’s eyes were out on stalks, glassy with concentration as he peered through the undergrowth. He and the company were lying belly down in a patch of wood-sorrel, hidden from view by the bracken and stinging nettles. Though the trees were spread much more thinly in this part of the woods, the dense undergrowth afforded them the cover they needed to spy out the open terrain around about. About a hundred yards in front of them the last of the trees petered out completely, and from there on a thick carpet of bracken sloped upwards to the hill country beyond. The grass up there was thinner and coarser than the lush woodland fronds in which they were lying now, and from a few miles away they could hear sheep yelling to each other.
Finwald crawled forward on his belly, cat-like, and reached the cover of an ancient, moss-coated ash with cuckoo-pint and fungus growing at its base. He glanced skywards nervously, before daring to raise himself from the cover of the bracken for a better view. Quickly he ducked down again and scuttled back to his companions.
‘It’s them,’ he repeated excitedly. ‘There’s a line of smoke rising from behind one of those rocky knolls on the lower slopes of the hills, over to the left there. Someone’s cooking breakfast. We can surprise them if—’
‘But did you definitely see them?’ Nibulus asked.
‘Who else can it be?’ Finwald demanded shrilly. There was a wild look in his eyes that they were not used to seeing. Nibulus said nothing, but frowned; in doubt maybe, but more likely in consternation at the priest. He looked terrible. His customary neatness, style and cool dignity seemed to have been gradually torn away by the grasping, animated plant-life of Eotunlandt’s forests, to be replaced by mud-smears, burrs, thorny twigs and slug-slime. To Finwald now, of all of them, there looked to be more of Eotunlandt than Wyda-Aescaland.
They had been travelling for seven days since their encounter with the Giant, fearfully picking their way through the thickest parts of the forest. Uppermost in their minds was the fear of being spotted by a Giant again, and the strain was taking its toll like never before. Yet always Finwald, the only one of them who looked around himself rather than up, urged them on with greater speed. Down in the permanent gloom beneath the dense forest canopy, there had not been much in the way of undergrowth to hinder them, and they had actually made good speed. None of them knew where the thieves had got to after the incident with the Giant, or even if they had survived, but they all had the feeling their enemy had escaped for the most part and would be heading for the only exit out of Eotunlandt, as they themselves were. Finwald seemed convinced that only if they could reach this secret gateway out of Eotunlandt first would they find the thieves.
But it was a constant battle between his urgency and his companions’ fear.
‘Perhaps it is them,’ Appa admitted, ‘but we cannot risk leaving these woods – we’d be seen for sure.’
True enough, it was open land out there, and none of them was willing to leave the sanctuary of the sacred trees. And even if Finwald were right, no one was too keen on the idea of a reunion with the Tyvenborgers. But for days that was all the priest could talk about. ‘We must get Flametongue back,’ he murmured. ‘It’s a gift from Cuna, I swear it!’
The others were less convinced about the flamberge’s importance. They already had a silver blade and, as
Finwald himself had assured them at the outset, that was surely enough to do the job.
‘Appa,’ Finwald said slowly and deliberately, holding his senior’s gaze, ‘believe me, it is them. It just is, all right? And if they – or anyone, come to that – can risk starting a fire out in the open, then how likely d’you think it is there are any Giants nearby? That smoke can be seen for miles!’
Appa gave his former protégé a somewhat hurt look that seemed to say Calm down. No need to get tetchy. Then he said, ‘All right, all right, but what about the Tyvenborgers? They’ll have sentries, and they’d spot us a mile off out there in the open.’
Finwald paused at this. He paused long. Then he realized that he really had no answer.
For a week, a whole damn week, he had driven the company on as hard as he could with his various devices: every persuasive argument that came to him, every line of oratory, flattery or cajolery he could think of, every threat he thought he could get away with, all delivered with every ounce of passion within him. Yet with each second that passed, each moment one of the company might delay for whatever reason, each hindrance that happenstance threw in their way, his desperation grew that little bit more intense.
He had so much to contend with. There was the terrain, to start with. In these deep woodlands it was very difficult for Kuthy, their guide, to judge where they were exactly, yet none of them would risk open country for fear of the Giants. Then there were the inadequacies of the various members of the company, too: Appa’s slowness, Bolldhe’s sulkiness and, worst of all, Kuthy’s lack of interest in hurrying and his outright refusal to be told what to do by anyone. And after all was said and done, Finwald was not even the leader, so there was only so much he could achieve. He just thanked Cuna that Nibulus was his friend and on his side.
The closer they came to the northern rim of the mountains, the more fretful Finwald became. He had begun to despair of ever seeing Flametongue again, and in his darker moments had considered the possibility of using some spell of persuasion on them all, something to put the wind at their heels. But even in his state of mind, he would not sink to that level. Not with his friends.
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