The Way to Babylon

by Paul Kearney

  And then they fled. As quickly as they had arrived, the pack scattered and disappeared upslope into the maze of boulders and gullies, the odd stone rattling to mark their passing. They left the bodies of a dozen of their comrades lying lifeless on the ground behind them.

  The company quietened the maddened horses, some of which were slashed along flanks or belly. Riven examined his leg and found that his boot had been ripped open like paper, but that his calf was only scratched. He felt sick at the memory of the beasts he had just seen.

  Bicker mounted, and the Hearthwares hit the saddle a moment later.

  ‘Come on,’ Bicker shouted. ‘They will be back, and in greater numbers. We must ride on at once and get out of the hills before dark.’

  The rest clambered into their saddles, and followed him unquestioningly as he led them at a canter downslope to where the hills opened out, and patches of ground could be seen where the snow was melting. The horses were as eager to leave the scene of the attack as their riders, and the snow flew from their hoofs as they rattled along, blowing hard.

  ‘Look to the heights on our left!’ Corrary shouted, pointing. They stared and saw the grey flicker of movement there amongst the rocks, and kicked their horses on.

  After a while, with their mounts winded, they halted. It had begun to snow, and small flakes were drifting down to settle on their eyelashes. They dismounted and walked the horses, Luib and Ratagan taking the rear. The land was flatter here, and there were fewer boulders strewn around. Bicker estimated that they had put some three miles between themselves and the scene of the attack. His steed was lame where one of the grypesh had gashed its forequarter, and he called a halt.

  ‘We’ll camp here,’ he said wearily. ‘We need to see to the horses if they are to bear us any farther. Tagan, you, Darmid and Corrary take a walk and see what you can see.’ The bearded Hearthware nodded, and stalked off with his younger companions in tow. The rest of the company set to unsaddling the horses and building a fire. The wind began to pick up again, moaning round their ears. Riven occupied himself with trying to tie up what remained of his boot and leggings, whilst Luib and Rimir produced tarpaulins of waxed cloth from the packs and began constructing a crude lean-to to keep the snow from them. Bicker doctored the hurts of the horses with some strong-smelling salve, which he gouged from a small wooden box and smeared on their wounds. The animals flinched as they felt it, but Isay held them firmly, talking to them in a quiet voice.

  Madra helped Ratagan with the fire, and when Riven had done the best he could with his ripped clothing, he wandered about the campsite looking for firewood. There was a dried-up riverbed not far away, and along its banks were the skeletons of trees long dead. He snapped off armfuls of branches and brought them back in piles to Ratagan. He was soon helped by Madra and Isay, and the trio worked with a will in the growing twilight as the snow came down more thickly and visibility worsened. When they returned with one last load, Bicker stopped them from going out for more. He was sniffing the air worriedly, wondering where their scouts had gone. The fire was built up higher than usual to guide them back to the camp, but also, Riven thought, because they were imagining the packs of grypesh coming after them out of the heights of the hills.

  Tagan and the other two Hearthwares reappeared some time later with snow covering them. They shook themselves before the fire and stood in the lee of the shelter.

  ‘There were some tracks quartering the ground to the south,’ Tagan said, rubbing his hands. ‘But we could not follow them far in the snow. It was a small pack, maybe eight beasts. Not the one we fought. But there is at least one larger pack on our trail. This snowstorm might put them off, but we would do well to be extra watchful tonight.’

  Bicker nodded. ‘Two to each watch, then. But we’ll eat before we fix them.’ The lean-to trapped the heat of the fire, and the hobbled horses on the other side of the flames reflected the warmth also. It was crowded inside, but that made it warmer. They spread their bedrolls whilst Ratagan and Isay prepared food for the company. Madra lay next to Riven at the back, and he did not object when she piled the blankets over them both and pushed close to him.

  The snow thickened as night fell, piling around their shelter and hissing at the fire. Ratagan and Luib took first watch, whilst the rest lay and listened to the wind, felt it tugging at the tarpaulin. It was hard to sleep with the image of the prowling packs on their trail. Ratagan stood with his hands spread to the fire and the flames winking on his axe blade. But he was looking outwards, to the wind-driven snow and the darkness.

  ‘A wearisome night,’ he said. ‘And a long time till dawn. We need something to lighten the time. What about a story? Someone must have a tale to tell in our company.’

  No one replied. He bent and threw a log on to the fire. ‘Miserable wretches.’

  ‘I have a story,’ said Luib, surprising them all. His lined face was indecipherable in the firelight.

  ‘It is a story of the Myrcans, and of the time when they first came to Minginish to take service with the people of the Vale and the Dales.’ He paused for a second, staring into the fire. ‘The Myrcans, when they were first created out of Dwarf-hewn and Giant-riven stone, took up residence in the broad Dale of Glen-arric, and in time that place became known as Merkadale, as it still is called today. They built homes throughout the Dale up to the borders of what is now Drinan, and their chief town was at Dun Merkadal. There they lived their lives, and prospered for a while; but there was a disquiet amongst them, for it was said that they had been created with a purpose in this life, and that the purpose had something to do with the manner of their creation. They were—and are—a hardy people, full of energy and unafraid. But they were never ones for the tilling of the soil; and they did not make great hunters. Only to one thing were their hands turned with skill, and that was killing. They thought then that they would set out as an army and conquer the rest of the land and rule over it; that was their mission. But some doubted and one, Rol, who was a great war leader, mistrusted the feelings which prompted the Myrcans to wage war and was sickened by the killing, so he set off into the mountains to seek the Dwarves and avail himself of their ancient wisdom.

  ‘In the Greshorns, he wandered alone through the passes, climbed the peaks and was exhausted by the journey. Finally he lay down in the snow and determined to die, for his stamina had failed him and he had not found the Dwarves; and he did not want to go back to the life of killing he had led. It was then that the Dwarves came to him, fed him, warmed him in their mansions and asked his purpose, for no mortal man had ever travelled so far into the mountains. And he asked them what it was the Myrcans had been put on the earth to do, and they laughed.

  ‘“If we knew that, we would know the purpose of our own lives, and mayhap the secret behind life itself,” they said. “But no one can know that who breathes upon the earth.”

  ‘In despair, Rol asked them what he could do for his people except lead them in the killing of others in the land.

  ‘They laughed again. “Not ours to answer that question,” they said, “for you already have its answer within you. Look less far than the mountains the next time you wish your questions answered. Look at what has been given to you, and use it wisely.” And then they were gone and he was lying in the snow of a mountainside, alone and cold.

  ‘He journeyed back to his own people, with many adventures along the way; and when he was in Merkadale, he told the Myrcans that they had to stop the killing, that they were only trying to pick an apple that was already in their hands. He told them to go amongst the people of the land and offer them their service, to defend Minginish instead of conquering it; for the most earth a man ever needs is what is piled in his grave. So the Myrcans did so. In small groups they went out across the land and offered their services in its defence against the beasts, or against the wandering brigands which sometimes harried it.

  ‘They were greeted with suspicion and hostility at first, and in more than one place they had to fight to prov
e they truly wanted to serve rather than to rule, to harbour rather than destroy. And some of the lords tried to misuse them, to pit them in small wars of conquest and pillage. But the Myrcans slew these lords, and sought better ones to replace them. Many faiths were broken before the people became convinced of the truth of the Myrcans’ mission, but after a while, when no Myrcan had turned against the righteous lords, and they had not tried to usurp the rule of the Dales and the Vale, then they were at last accepted. This was long after Rol was dead. They became the guardians of the land, the scourge of any who tried to harm it, and every new generation issued out of Merkadale to take the place of those who had fallen for Minginish. The Myrcans found their purpose.’

  The fire cracked, and Luib’s story was ended. The wind rustled the loose flaps of the lean-to. Riven could feel Madra’s soft breathing beside him.

  Not a story. More like a sermon.

  After a while he dozed, and then slid into a dreamless sleep. He disentangled himself from Madra before dawn to share his watch with Bicker, and the two of them saw the sun come up. The snow had stopped falling by then, and the sky was beginning to clear. The light grew over a white, silent world of vague hummocks and hollows, and the stars faded.

  ‘A quiet night, after all,’ Bicker said, his eyes on the flat land of the wide river valley ahead. ‘And today we will leave the hills behind, and go to the places where men dwell.’

  ‘The grypesh won’t follow us, then?’

  The dark man shook his head. ‘I think they would have lost our trail in last night’s snowstorm. If it had been Rime Giants following us, we would have had a more difficult time of it; they enjoy such conditions. But grypesh do much the same as we do: they hole up and wait for the weather to pass.’ The first sunlight touched the snow and picked shadows out of their faces.

  ‘It’s so far away,’ Riven murmured, but Bicker heard him.

  ‘Are you that eager to get there?’

  ‘I don’t know. I was.’

  ‘Maybe it is not only the Myrcans who are looking for a purpose.’

  Riven barked a mirthless laugh, and remembered Guillamon shaking his hand.

  I hope you find peace.

  ‘I don’t want anything,’ he said roughly, though he was no longer sure if it were strictly true. He twisted away from the thought of the sleeping girl in the shelter.

  THE SUN DAZZLED the company as they continued on their way. The horses seemed to have recovered, but they kept to an easy pace as the snow was deep. It was almost warm, and Riven hung his cloak by the saddle bow. The country rolled endlessly beyond his sight, and he abandoned himself to the routine of riding, resting, eating and sleeping.

  Three days passed with no signs of pursuit. His limbs ceased to complain about the riding, and he slept more easily on the hard ground at night. Tagan roamed the country to the north of the company, but it was deserted, empty of both men and beasts. They saw a few hares, two of which the tracker managed to shoot for the pot, and there were buzzards overhead sometimes, but that was all.

  Carnach Rorim was to their east as they continued, and Tagan saw one of its patrols once, far off, but the company went unnoticed. They had no more snow, and the streams they crossed were free of ice; the unnatural winter was less severe now that they were out of the hills.

  Ten days after they had left Ralarth Rorim, they saw the silver sword-glitter of a river in the distance. Bicker shaded his eyes and peered north with satisfaction.

  ‘The Great River. We have made good time. We shall reach it tonight, and tomorrow follow it northwards.’ He grinned at Ratagan. ‘And soon we will be within smelling distance of ale houses, my thirsty friend.’

  ‘Praise be!’ the big man responded. ‘My stomach had all but resigned itself to a life of poverty.’

  As the day wore on, they heard everywhere around them the rill of running water, and grass began to poke up through the snow in clumps. Riven even heard skylarks sporting over the open meadows. The company began to take off their winter clothes, and the saddle bows became piled with sheepskins.

  ‘We leave winter behind us, it seems,’ Tagan said, turning in the saddle to look back at the still-white hills. He shook his head. ‘Strange times we live in.’

  ‘When the real winter comes to the land, there will be lean times,’ Corrary said, spitting over his mount’s shoulder.

  That evening they camped beside the broad river on ground that was free of snow. The sun spangled on the water as it went down into a red wrack of clouds. Luib studied it as the others set up camp.

  ‘A fine day tomorrow, and no more snow in the air. We’ve been given back our summer.’ He glanced at Riven, and then began unsaddling his horse.

  ‘I am glad,’ said Ratagan. ‘Snow is a fine thing for children, but at my age it looks less pretty.’

  ‘You are not so comely yourself,’ Bicker laughed.

  The river was almost half a mile wide, with several islets dotted throughout it that were alive with wildfowl. Riven glimpsed the blue flash of a kingfisher as he set out his bedroll, and paused, memories of wheelchairs and white-clad figures nagging at him.

  It stayed light till late, the last scarlet wash of sunlight lingering in the clouds at the brim of the horizon. They sat around the fire, letting the horses graze freely with Rimir and Darmid to look after them, and listened to the birds that sang in the reeds thronging the riverbank. The sky remained clear, and a mist rose out of the river as it darkened. They brought in the horses, hobbled them and built up the fire. Then they lay like the spokes of a wheel around it and heard the sound of the river and the night fowl before drifting off to sleep.

  In the morning, Riven lay half-awake, listening to the sound of the water close at hand, and for a few moments thought it was a quiet tide outside the bothy. He opened his eyes to be caught by the early morning sun, and to see that Bicker and the Myrcans were already awake and fixing breakfast. It was warm under the skin rugs, and now that Madra had taken off most of her winter clothing he could feel the shape of her, curved next to him. He moved his hand and touched her breast through the robe she wore, found the nipple and stroked it until it hardened and she stirred. Then he pulled himself out from under the rugs, feeling ashamed, and walked over to where the bank was free of weeds. He stared down at the slow-moving water, seeing a vague, bearded reflection. Then he knelt and thrust his head into the water, its coldness bringing a shout to his lips.

  They moved on again with the river coursing slowly in the growing light beside them, and the birds darting out in front of their horses’ knees. The Great River swept sluggishly through meads that were aflame with buttercups and dotted with the last patches of melting snow. Copses of beech and alder appeared, straggling along the banks with their roots lost in a tangle of briars and bracken. The sun set alight the water drops that speckled their leaves and shadowed the ground beneath them. Flies danced in the air.

  It was Corrary who pointed, and drew their gaze to the dark shadow on the water. They squinted into the sun and made out the shape of a boat near the midstream. It was flat and broad, and a crowd of sweating men on the deck were poling it upstream amongst the bird-filled islets. Their voices were faint at this distance, but they could be seen gesturing towards the company. A tall, dark figure with no pole moved amongst them issuing commands, and slowly the flatboat drew over to the bank. Bicker reined in his horse, and the rest followed suit, the Myrcans sliding their staves out of their belts.

  ‘River traders,’ said Ratagan. ‘Not pirates. They are probably heading up to Talisker.’

  The poles slid glistening in and out of the water as the craft approached and then beached with a bump. Men jumped on to the bank to secure it, and the man who had given the orders leapt overboard with a silver plash, two others behind him. He held up an open hand in salute.

  ‘Greetings, fellow travellers! We are well met on this fine day indeed. Finnan is my name, and you see my craft and my trade before you.’ He bowed. He was very tall, taller even than
Ratagan, though only half as broad. He had a bright head of closely cropped golden hair that the sun turned to silver, and a darker, neat moustache on his upper lip. He was dressed in weather-stained leather that was decorated with scarlet and yellow thread, and there was a slim sword hanging from his hip. The men behind him were brawny and short-haired, their bare arms reddened by sun and wind and their bare feet wet and muddy. They eyed the company, especially the striped faces of the Myrcans.

  ‘For Talisker we are bound, with a pitifully small cargo of hides and grain that the weather has played havoc with.’ Finnan had a cheeky grin that had nonetheless something guarded about it. He reminded Riven a little of the Bicker he had known at the bothy.

  Bicker did not dismount, but leaned forward in the saddle and nodded to the river pilot.

  ‘I was wondering,’ Finnan went on, ‘seeing your company so finely decked out for travelling, if you were by any chance headed the same way?’

  ‘And if we were, would it concern you?’ the dark man asked politely.

  Finnan laughed. ‘Why, of course. We can both aid the other here if we’ve a mind to. Passengers would make my trip profitable after all, and the river journey would be quicker and save the horses. It is a long way to Talisker, and there are fewer beasts to be met on the river than on the land these days. What do you say?’

  ‘And how much do you charge for your ferrying?’ Ratagan called out to him.

  ‘A modest amount, no more. I am not a greedy man. Say a knuckle of silver from each of you; no more than you would balance on a fingertip. As I say, I am not a greedy man.’