by Paul Kearney
‘You are not,’ Bicker admitted. ‘That is a fair offer—but why be so generous?’
Finnan shrugged. ‘I am tired of poling the river, telling the same stories and hearing the same ones in return. My crew would like to hear some new news from the Dales.’
‘Indeed?’ Bicker’s gaze had suddenly sharpened. ‘And is there no news forthcoming lately?’
‘Much, but all of it hearsay. You have Hearthwares and Myrcans with you. Some of you have the look of lords, yet you bear the mark of hard travelling and your steeds are scarred. I have heard of a battle, of Myrcan fighting Myrcan, and many upheavals amongst the Rorim to the south. I am curious to know more. That to me is worth more than silver, for I think much about the state of the land in these strange times, with snow falling in midsummer and the Giants wandering the hills.’
‘And you think we can sate the curiosity you harbour?’
Finnan smiled. ‘I am sure of it. We carry beer on board. It is a fine thing to talk the evenings away, when the river work is done, with a mug in your hand. A weakness in me, some call it. I say, a foible that any man is entitled to.’
Ratagan let out a deep laugh. ‘Well said, waterman. What do you think, Bicker? Do we take up Finnan’s offer, or wear down our horses’ hoofs further?’
Bicker stared at Finnan for a long moment, then turned to take in the rest of the company. ‘Is anyone here against this?’
There were no answers, and he nodded.
‘Very well, Finnan. Run out a ramp and we’ll board our horses. You shall have your silver and your news, in return for a safe trip upstream to Talisker’s Rivergate.’ He spat on his hand, and Finnan stepped forward to slap it.
‘A worthy bargain, and a wise course for us all. Welcome to the river, my friends.’
THIRTEEN
THE FLATBOAT WAS forty feet wide and at least twice as long. At the stern was a large, squat cabin which had the steering oar on its roof. There was an open hold half full of sacks and bundles of cured hides, and here the horses were put. Large tarpaulins were pulled over the hold whenever it rained, and most of the crew slept in their shelter. Finnan’s passengers stowed most of their gear in the hold and the Hearthwares slept there, but there was room for the others in the three-sided cabin, though the roof was so low they bumped their heads. The boat had a crew of twenty, and they laboured from dawn to dusk in two shifts to keep the clumsy craft moving against the current, poling it away from sandbars and small, reed-covered islands.
But Finnan was true to his word, and there was beer that night to drink when they had beached and set the horses to graze ashore, and lit their fires on the bank. And they could see for the first time the lights of settlements off in the dark distance of the Vale. Finnan labelled them as they ate their evening meal.
‘Corriad, Bemnor, Drum Larad; and that larger one there, that is Conwere. It used to be a good town for the hides trappers brought down out of the hills, but that trade is gone now, along with many another. Times are hard even here. They’ll be harder before we see the spring, if the spring is to come when it should. The way the year is running, we could have a drought at midwinter and snowdrops at harvest time. Very unsettling.’
‘Have you sailed the rivers long?’ red-haired Darmid asked him.
‘A fair number of years. A good way to see the land without getting bow-legged doing it, or flat-footed. The river is placid here, where it becomes patient in its long run to the sea and decides to slow and look at the land it passes through. A man can learn a lot from the river.’
Bicker leaned forward to toy with his mug. ‘How have the lands in the Vale fared over the past year? It is months since I have been near them.’
Finnan was staring at Madra, and Riven could see her staring back with one eyebrow raised, eyes steady. The river pilot smiled crookedly and then turned to Bicker.
‘The villages down near the river have been almost untouched, but many farms in the hills are now deserted, where their people have fled the grypesh and the Giants. Packs roam everywhere at will and the few towns have not ’Wares enough to police the whole countryside, so the farmers and herders are mostly left to fend for themselves and, as I said, the hunters are all but ruined. Many of them have been slain, and those who still pursue their craft do so in large bands, which means for bad hunting, even while it keeps them alive.’
‘It is worse in the Dales,’ Ratagan put in. ‘There they raid right up to the walls of the fortresses, and within.’
Finnan looked down into his beer. ‘I had heard that. I heard more, besides. How much of it is true?’ He glanced at Isay and Luib, but the silent Myrcans did not appear to notice him.
‘There was fighting,’ Bicker admitted with a frown. ‘There were misunderstandings, but all has settled down.’
‘There was a battle?’
‘Yes. Many died. The three western Dales are under one leader now.’
‘Would it be a man named the Warbutt?’ Finnan asked offhandedly.
Bicker shrugged. ‘It might.’
Finnan was thoughtful. ‘A great leader, if the rumours are true.’
Bicker scowled. ‘I have heard that said about him.’ He rose abruptly. ‘I must go and see that the horses are secure,’ and he left the fires for the darkness where Rimir and Corrary stood guard with two of Finnan’s sailors. The river pilot watched him leave.
‘A man with much on his shoulders, if I am not mistaken. How else can he ignore loveliness seated so close to him?’ Here he raised his cup to Madra and then drained it with a flourish. ‘Our journey will be the lighter for the sight of it.’ Then he stood up and stretched. ‘I have my own steed to see to, also.’ He went off in the direction of the river and the dark bulk of the flatboat.
Riven threw back the last of his beer. None of my business. I don’t own anyone.
He looked at Madra, but she was gazing into the fire and did not see him.
THE NEXT MORNING was fine and clear, after a mist was burnt off the water by the rising sun. Riven sat at the bow with his eyes in the dazzle of the water. To him the passing of the water was interminable, the shining poles like the dipping legs of a stranded insect. There were houses of turf and stone close by the river, and sometimes they passed rowboats, but the flatboat was sailing up against a rock wall it could not scale. This world was real. He had held it in his arms in the dark and kissed its eyes. Somehow he had been infused with some of its magic—that word again, he thought wryly. Well, it’s as good as any other. So he was a wizard, in away. He made the seasons change and brought facsimiles of his own world’s people into this one. But there was more to it than that. Minginish itself had its fair share of magic. Hence the dark-haired girl who did not know him and who wandered Skye and Minginish at will, searching for something she could not recognise. If Riven were responsible for Jinneth, then the land itself was responsible for Jenny’s other incarnation. Two of them, here. But how much of his wife was in either?
And here the rub, the wall which always halted him. Was Jenny really dead? Was she at peace, or was there a part of her that was even now wandering Minginish? That idea he could not bear.
So he was travelling north, into the mountains. And if he could not find the Dwarves, then he was going to Sgurr Dearg and home. Try perhaps to write a happy ending for this world and the people in it. Perhaps that would be enough for them, if not for himself. Most of all, though, he had to make sure that his wife rested in peace.
So take it as it comes, for the moment. Enjoy the trip.
Unwillingly, he found his gaze dragged to Madra. She was on the cabin deck with Finnan, Bicker and Ratagan, a smile lighting her face. Did she smile more often these days?
He dragged his eyes away again and watched the labouring backs of the sailors. Darmid and Corrary sweated there too, whilst a grey-bearded, scrawny riverman criticised their poling. The Hearthware armour was a shining pile on the lower deck.
THREE QUIET DAYS went past in the slow slap and plop of the river. They had wa
rm days and clear, cold nights, when they sat round the camp fires or stood guard over the horses. During that time, they stopped to talk to no one, though they passed other craft on the river whose occupants stared at the company. Apparently Myrcans and Hearthwares were a rarity in these parts.
There were straggling villages that trailed along the bank, with a boat to each house and nets hanging to dry or to be mended. The Great River was the highway for many towns and villages; the only highway that was still safe.
The horses of the company were making the most of their rest. Their wounds had healed and they were in full flesh again, frisking by the riverbank when they were disembarked to graze.
On the fourth evening of their waterborne journey, they tied up at a place which had thickets of hazel and birch growing near the water. The ground was boggy underfoot, though there was grass in abundance between the trees. They let the horses wander there with Rimir, Isay and two of Finnan’s men watching over them, then found a relatively dry spot and set up camp in what had become their normal routine. The cooking fires were lit and pots were set over the flames to boil. Some of them gathered firewood, others drew water. Riven wandered away from the camp into the trees, and shook his head to Isay’s questioning look.
‘I won’t go far. I want to be on my own.’
He rubbed the muzzle of a horse when it nosed up to him, and scratched its ears. Then he walked deeper into the trees as the twilight thickened around him and the stars began appearing among the branches over his head. He sat with his back to the pale bark of a birch and hugged his knees to his chest.
Been here long enough. Beginning to like it, that’s my problem.
Leaves rustled behind, and he could not stop the smile when Madra sat down beside him.
‘A pleasant night,’ she said. ‘There will be a moon later on, and we’ll have mist by the morning.’ She rested her head on his shoulder, and even at that slight touch he felt the familiar stirrings. He moved slightly away, and she had to lift her head.
‘Why?’ she asked thickly.
Why? Because there is a woman I love who may yet be out there with a heart that is beating.
But he said nothing.
‘Finnan asked me if I was spoken for by you.’ He looked at her for the first time and saw the tears on her cheeks, glistening in the starlight. He put his arm about her then, and drew her close.
Oh, you hero.
‘I don’t know what you want.’
He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the cool bark of the tree. ‘I’m not sure I do any more. I’m sorry, Madra. Getting to know me was a bad idea.’
‘But does it have to be that way?’
‘It does if you want your world to survive.’
‘But one moment you hold me, the next you push me away.’
He cursed softly. ‘I’m just a weak fool who can’t do what he should. I’m sorry.’
‘What is it you are going to do in the mountains? Who is it you are going to meet?’
‘I don’t know. The Dwarves. My—my wife, maybe.’
She stiffened, and whispered, ‘You said she was dead.’
Slowly, hopelessly, he said: ‘She is, in my world. But somehow she is here, in Minginish. I have seen her... here.’
Madra pulled away from him. ‘How can that be? How can she be here?’
Riven’s hands fell to the earth and the leaf mould. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know how any of this happened. I didn’t ask for it.’
In a quiet voice, Madra said, ‘Neither did I.’
They were silent for a long time. Her eyes were very dark in the dim light, her hair like a hood that shadowed her face.
‘What was she like, your wife?’
It seemed he heard that question again, a thousand years ago and in another world.
‘She was... a lot like you, in some ways,’ he said at last, admitting it. ‘More reckless, maybe, and afraid of nothing.’ But that was what had killed her. That, and a rope he had forgotten to replace.
Madra touched his face, traced the old scars on his forehead.
‘You saw her die.’
Michael!
‘Yes.’
She pulled him to her and held him as though he were a child, kissing away his frown. They lay still. Off towards the river, one of the horses nickered loudly. Then the night was quiet again.
Except for the sound of feet on the leaves, thick as the patter of heavy rain on the floor of the wood. Riven sat up, then jumped to his feet as he saw the glitter of the eyes and the shadows moving amongst the trees. He bent and seized Madra’s hand, pulling her to her feet.
‘Come on!’
They pelted away, with the leaves flying at their heels and the sound of the pursuing feet closer, along with the squealing as they were sighted. They zigzagged around tree trunks and saw the dark shapes scurrying along out of the corner of their eyes. The breath sawed in their throats.
Madra tripped and fell headlong in the leaf mould, and in an instant their pursuers were upon her. She disappeared with a scream as a grypesh leapt. Riven yelled incoherently and swept out his sword. He buried the blade in the beast’s back and it jumped off her, snarling. Then a heavy body struck him from behind and knocked him down, the fetid breath on his cheek. He rolled, and felt claws rake his ribs, but gripped his sword and thrust upwards. Hot liquid and entrails spilled over him, and he scrambled out from under the thing. He threw himself forward, startling the beasts that were tearing at the prostrate girl on the ground, and arced his sword round with manic strength, tearing the blade through two of them with one swing. But there were others to take their place. He raged at the futility of it, and shouted for help as his blade hissed and crunched, but his arms were tiring and he could feel blood running down inside his tunic.
Then men burst into view under the trees, and there were half a dozen others there with him, their swords shining in the moon. Two Myrcan staves were splintering bones. Riven heard Bicker’s voice.
‘Get back to the boat before we’re overrun!’ Two figures bent and picked up Madra, and half-carried, half-dragged her away, whilst the rest fought a running battle with the maddened grypesh. They could not be forced away, but came on in ever greater numbers, shrilling with pain and anger.
They emerged from the trees, and Riven could see that the open space before the river was alive with the great grey-furred beasts and their cold eyes. They swarmed like lice over the camp, and there was a battle being waged at the boat. Some men were trying to push out of the shallows, whilst others held off the beasts. The moonlight splintered on the foaming water as they fought calf-deep in the river. Already bodies were floating sullenly at the bow, and others were drifting slowly downstream. But they were not all grypesh.
Riven’s group cut and slashed their way to the river without respite. The animals which fought there gave little heed to defence; they massed around them and tried to engulf them. There was a sudden space when the man at Riven’s shoulder went down with a cry. He did not come up again.
They splashed into the shallows and slipped on the smooth stones. The boat was drifting into the current, the long poles dipping in the dark water and pushing her away. They were floundering chest-deep, and Riven went to Madra’s head, helping to hold it above the water. The grypesh swam out after them, and there were battles fought there in a welter of blood and foam. Riven could see nothing for the water in his eyes, but when the dark shape of the hull loomed up he pushed Madra towards it. Other hands took her from him, and he grasped the side of the craft, too tired to pull himself up.
Teeth sank into his leg, and he was jerked under the water. He choked for air, water gurgling into his ears and fighting to enter his mouth. The teeth shook him. His hands met a furry body and claws that flailed at him. He dug his thumbs into the eyes, a red bonfire blazing at his chest, and heard an underwater bubbling squeal. Then he was released, and whooping for air in the moonlight. Something hooked under his collar, hauling him upwards and choking him. He tr
ied to fight it, but he had not the strength. He was lifted out of the water and dumped with a smack on hard wood. There he lay, gasping and looking into the unreadable eyes of Isay.
Finnan was shouting commands, and swords were still flashing at the beasts who fought to clamber on board. Riven had lost his in the river, but he snatched up one of the long river poles and stabbed it down on the crowds of hairy heads that thronged the water, clicking against skulls. But there were too many of them. They swarmed on board with the agility of rats and leapt for the defenders. The flatboat drifted helplessly downstream like a stricken beetle, as the crew fought for their lives against wet teeth and rabid eyes. Men went down with two or three of the beasts ripping at them; or fell overboard and were killed in a froth of churning water. Riven managed to prise a knife from a dead sailor’s hand and stood between Isay and Darmid as they tried to keep their attackers away from Madra’s still form on the deck. The Myrcan stave was almost invisible as it smashed bones and cracked skulls, hurling the animals into the river, and Darmid’s sword wreaked havoc also. Riven darted in with a stab when he could, but there was little room between them. He stepped back and chanced a look at Madra. Blood marked her torn robe in many places and her eyes were closed, but she was breathing.
Darmid fell with his throat torn out and a grypesh worrying at it. Riven stabbed his knife in deep behind its ear and it went limp. Then he picked up Darmid’s sword and met the next grypesh with a savage thrust that disembowelled it. There were fewer of them now. The flatboat was out in midstream and the current was carrying the swimming beasts away. The defenders’ plight was no longer so desperate. They advanced steadily along the boat, forcing the grypesh back until the grey beasts were scrabbling on the cabin deck. Bicker and Finnan killed the last one there. Its body fell with a loud splash, to be taken by the river. Then the fight was over.
Bodies lay in heaps on the deck, in the cabin, in the hold. The flatboat was dripping with blood. Wounded men were groaning quietly, and a crippled grypesh bubbled with pain until a sailor finished it off. Riven bent to Madra, but did not know what to do. He glanced at Isay helplessly. The Myrcan’s face was a wilderness.