The Way to Babylon

by Paul Kearney

  Set in the floor of the cavern at irregular intervals were circular pits filled with fire. The flames licked up to bathe the pillars and the entire cavern, making it a vision of hell. A dozen Dwarves were sitting in high-backed chairs before the company, their eyes glowing with a light to match the fiery pits in the floor. At their rear were a line of pillars different from the others. Each was sculpted in the shape of a gigantic Dwarf struggling to hold up the rock of the granite ceiling, his face contorted with effort. There were twelve of them, all different, all straining with agony written in every eye. They looked unnervingly real.

  The cavern was uncomfortably warm, and sweat beaded Riven’s forehead. He stood before the Dwarves with the rest of the company in silence. They had been disarmed and brought here by the four Dwarves he and Ratagan had encountered in the passageway. Now they stood as if they were on trial.

  And the Dwarf who was addressing them had the face of Calum MacKinnon, Jenny’s father.

  ‘We have seen many men enter these mountains. Many of them have left their bones here. Some we have assisted, some we have ignored, some we have slain. You have a Myrcan with you. That is good, for the Soldier-folk were hewn out of Dwarf-crafted stone. You have a tall man and a dark man. You have a lady. And you have one who has power locked up inside him like the water in a dam. One who is not made out of the stuff of this world, who is so alien that we could smell him as his feet touched the very stones of the mountains. An interesting company, indeed. And it is pursued across the peaks by Giants and men. The Vyr-folk have aided it, and the Hidden Folk are friends with it. An interesting company.’

  The Dwarf fell silent as if pondering them. None of his comrades moved or spoke. They might have been made out of stone themselves. But there was a low humming in Riven’s mind, like a far-off mutter of talk. He stared at the Dwarf who was Calum again. The beard changed the face and the eyes were strange, but it was him, down to the humorous quirk at the side of the mouth; a quirk Jenny had inherited and Jinneth shared. But the Dwarf’s face was impassive, with none of the dancing life in it that had made Calum’s so mobile. The red eyes made it look inhuman.

  Standing behind the company were other Dwarves, a great crowd of them. Riven and his companions had run the gauntlet of their stares as they had entered, the Stone-folk clearing a path for them to the twelve high seats. They varied in size and appearance. Some were almost as tall as a man, though twice as broad. Others were so short as to be grotesque, their heads not reaching Riven’s waist and their knuckles dangling on the floor. They were all huge-limbed, with hands like spades, their thighs as thick as tree trunks, their chests like barrels. Most were bearded, the hair on their chins either cropped bristling and short or grown long as a woman’s hair and tucked into broad belts. Some wore it braided. Others had moustaches whose ends drooped past their chins, or were stiffened with what looked like lime so they had the appearance of pale tusks. Some were bald, their wrinkled scalps shining in the red heat of the hall; others had thick, long hair combed into ponytails or trailing down their backs; They all appeared old, their faces lined and their noses long, their eyes sunk in cavern-like sockets over which sprouted thick, angry eyebrows. Their eyes glowed in the dimness, shining like the eyes of an animal caught in a searchlight, but with a red radiance as if inside each of their skulls was a tiny inferno.

  They had made a low murmur as the company entered the hall, but now they were silent, though Riven could feel the pressure of their stares on his back.

  ‘What is your errand in these mountains?’ the Dwarf asked. It was Bicker who answered.

  ‘We came seeking you, Lord of Stone. We sought to avail ourselves of your wisdom.’

  The Dwarf raised one eyebrow. ‘Indeed? And you have found us. What questions would you put to the Folk of Stone?’

  Bicker hesitated and glanced at Riven, who nodded to the dark man and stepped forward.

  ‘I must tell you a story first,’ he said.

  He stood there for a long time in the red light, with the sweat gathering and the eyes of the Dwarves set on him unwaveringly, and he told them the story he and Minginish had become. He told them of his own adventures in the land above, and of what had befallen him in his own world. He told them of Jenny and Hugh, Calum and the dark girl. He spoke of the wanderings of Murtach and Bicker, the battles that had taken place in Talisker and the Dales, the plight of the Hidden Folk and the timing of the clearances. And he told them of his own books. He drew their plots out in the firelight and pointed out the similarities and the differences between what he had written and what was real. He told them he had seen this hall of theirs long before he had ever entered it. It was a scene out of his third book that he had not yet written but had visualised. He knew that the name of the Dwarf who looked like Calum was Thormod, and he thought that the name of this place might be Kasnrim Jhaar, the Place of the Iron Fort in their own tongue.

  There was a stir amongst the Dwarves at this, and some of them muttered angrily. But most regarded Riven with open wonder, and Thormod had a half-smile on his face that made him look more than ever like Calum.

  ‘We have a sorcerer of the human kind among us,’ one of the other Dwarves said. ‘He is not the first and he has a facility with tales, it is true, but can we believe what he says?’

  ‘He spoke the name of this place in our own tongue. No man has ever done that before,’ another said.

  ‘There is power in him such as I have never seen before in a man,’ a third rumbled thoughtfully.

  ‘His description of events in the land above is accurate,’ said a fourth. ‘There, at least, he told the truth.’

  ‘He travels with a Myrcan. They do not offer their services lightly,’ one put in, and there was a bass murmur of agreement from all of the seated Dwarves.

  Thormod spoke, cutting short the discussion.

  ‘What do you seek from us?’ he asked, almost gently.

  Riven returned his gaze wearily. His clothes were soaked with sweat and his head was beginning to spin. His throat was as dry as sand from speaking. He swayed where he stood, and felt Isay’s hand steady him.

  ‘Answers,’ he said. ‘I want you to tell me about magic, and how it came into Minginish.’

  One of the Dwarves snorted with derision, but Thormod frowned.

  ‘What is it you wish to do?’

  Riven sighed. ‘I thought I had made it clear. To close the doors between Minginish and my world. To stop what is happening to this place.’

  And I want my wife to rest in peace. But somehow he could not say that with Jinneth standing behind him.

  Thormod regarded him in silence for a moment.

  ‘We knew you were coming,’ he admitted at last. ‘And I at least knew your errand. We retain contacts with the Vyr-folk of the cities and the Hidden Folk of the mountains. We know Phrynius, though he was a young man when last I saw him. You tell the truth, and you frighten me. There is enough power in you to tear this world apart and rebuild it again. Maybe that is what you and your stories are doing.

  ‘We know also of the existence of the door on Arat Gor, the Red Mountain, though none of my people have ventured through it. We have placed a guard on it and none has passed that way in the last months. But we have seen this dark girl who is the sister to the lady in your company. She has been wandering the mountains, and none of the beasts will touch her. Nor can our powers affect her, or the hunters of the Hidden Folk catch her. But we can sense her, even in the depths of Kasnrim Jhaar. She is not human. She is made of the stuff of pure magic, the stuff from which Minginish was created.’

  ‘Tell me about magic,’ Riven repeated in a cracked voice.

  Thormod shook his head. ‘You and your company need rest and food before we start trying to bang our heads against the walls of this puzzle. You will think better after a sleep and some nourishment. Your company has been through hardship. Let me offer you the hospitality of the Jhaar, and apologise for our mistrust.’

  ‘I’d settle for some be
er,’ Ratagan muttered, none too softly. Several of the Dwarves chuckled.

  ‘A man who appreciates the good things of life. We shall dig up some beer for you, big man, never fear. And after tasting dwarvish ale you will never be content with any other.’

  Ratagan bowed deeply.

  ‘Hyval and Thiof will show you to some quarters in the lower levels where you can wash and rest. I will join you there later.’

  Thormod nodded at the Dwarves behind the company and, turning, they found that a way had been cleared in the crowd once more and two very short Dwarves were gesturing towards the back of the hall.

  ‘Later, then,’ Riven echoed. He stumbled along in the wake of their two squat guides with Ratagan, Isay, Jinneth and Bicker following after. Thormod was right, he realised. He felt as though he could sleep for a week. At the same time there was high excitement running through him like a fever.

  THE QUARTERS THEY had been given turned out to be a pair of spacious rooms hewn out of solid rock, complete with stone fireplaces. Wood was burning in both of them, making Bicker ponder aloud on the difficulty of transporting it this high. Or this low, Ratagan reminded him, grinning. They had no way of knowing how deep inside the mountains they were, but the journey from the cave of their fire had not been short and the four Dwarves who had discovered them had hastened them the whole way.

  The rooms were furnished with low tables and benches that seemed to be carved out of marble, though there were couches by the walls piled high with furs. Earthenware vessels clustered thickly on the tables, some giving off tendrils of steam and smells that brought the water into their mouths. They had forgotten the last time they had had a proper hot meal.

  Their two guides, Hyval and Thiof, set the tables for the company, dragging the heavy benches around as though they were made of plywood. They poured beer into deep cups and carved haunches of what looked like deer expertly. Then they bowed to the company and left without another word, closing the stone door behind them.

  The first thing Bicker did was to try and open it. He strained at the stone until the sweat rolled off his face, but even after Isay and Ratagan went to his aid, the door remained stubbornly shut.

  ‘So we are prisoners,’ Ratagan said, wiping his brow and eyeing the dark beer with interest. He did not seem unduly worried by the thought.

  ‘In a sense,’ the dark man said. ‘Dwarves are secretive folk. Perhaps they did not like the thought of us running about their mansions and peering into corners.’

  Ratagan was swallowing his drink with a look of ecstasy on his face. ‘By all that’s holy!’ he exclaimed. ‘Any folk who make ale as good as this cannot be all bad. They can keep me here as long as they will, if they continue to top up my cup with this stuff. It makes Colban’s ale taste like riverwater, and he is no mean brewer.’

  Bicker laughed. ‘Little pleases the innocent,’ he said, but his face changed as he, too, tasted the dwarven ale.

  For a while there was little talk as the company helped themselves to food and drink, occasionally commenting aloud on the amazing selection. There were apples and pears, fresh cheese, bread warm from the oven, pickles, onions, tomatoes, honey on the comb, hot broth and prime cuts of pork and venison with the skin on them crackling and the meat pink inside. And, of course, there was the beer: a huge jug of it, dark and cold with a head on it like cream. Jinneth had two cupfuls of the stuff, throwing it back as though she were dying of thirst: Then she tore herself a chunk of bread and cheese and nursed it by the fire, turning her back on them.

  Riven looked at Bicker, and the dark man shrugged. Ratagan, Isay, Bicker and Riven retired to the next room to leave her in peace, dragging stone settles over to the hearth and lounging on them shoulder to shoulder. Tiredness was bearing down on them like a dark cloud. Even Isay looked half-asleep.

  Ratagan chuckled suddenly and Riven looked at him. ‘What?’

  ‘Our hosts’ faces when you told them the name of this place. I’ll wager there are not many in this world who have seen a council of Dwarves at a loss.’

  ‘It was a well-told story,’ Bicker said, ‘even for a Teller.’

  Isay shook himself out of his doze. ‘In the stories, all Dwarves love to argue and discuss, and they love problems to unravel. They hate to fight. It is said that is one of the reasons they helped create the Myrcans, to defend Minginish for them. Some have called my people the Hammer of the Stone-folk, and some have said there is dwarven blood in us, hence our hardiness and our long lives. I know I feel at home here as if I were in Dun Merkadal itself. I believe they will aid us.’ He took another swallow of the potent beer.

  Ratagan nudged him. ‘Dwarven ale is strong stuff, indeed. Isay, I think that is the longest speech I have ever heard you make.’

  Sleep claimed them soon after. They laid themselves down on the fur-piled couches around the walls and were unconscious almost at once. Only Riven remained awake, debating within himself. At last, cursing silently, he made his way to the firelit gloom of the other room and saw Jinneth slumped by the dying flames with her empty cup lying by her side.

  He knelt on the hearthstone and stared. Her mouth was open slightly in sleep, dark lashes shut, her cheeks flushed with warmth. The flames danced a troop of shadows over her face and in the recesses of her raven hair.

  ‘Jenny,’ he said in a whisper, tucking the hair back from her face. He would have sold his soul to see her wake up and be the woman he had once known. But as Guillamon had once said, death was final—even in the land of dreams and stories.

  And he had come to accept that at last. Madra’s doing. Admitting to himself that he loved his frowning young nurse had been like casting aside a final, irrational hope. His wife was dead and this sleeping woman was not her, had never been her. But he was human, nonetheless, and he could not stop himself gazing at this face he had once loved, as if he were trying to get its contours right in his mind, make it imperishable.

  He kissed Jinneth on the forehead with infinite gentleness, and then gathered her up in his arms and laid her on one of the fur-laden couches. He covered her, and then returned to his own sleeping space without a backward glance.

  IT WAS TALK that woke him, the murmur of voices in the room, along with the clink of cups. He dragged himself out of a deep, dark womb of oblivion and knuckled his eyes until they could open without squinting. The fire had been built up, and there were thick candles burning on the table. Riven sat up. The dwarf, Thormod, was seated by the hearth smoking a long-stemmed clay pipe and engaged in conversation with Ratagan and Bicker. Isay stood to one side, listening. It seemed Jinneth was still asleep. A beer jug was propped against the leg of the settle and they all held cups in their hands.

  The Dwarf noticed him. ‘Good morning, my friend, for it is such outside. I hope your first night in the Jhaar was a pleasant one.’

  Riven mumbled something incomprehensible. The beer of the night before had left him feeling thick-headed and dull. He did not feel ready for conversation.

  The Dwarf smiled and continued smoking his pipe in silence whilst Ratagan and Bicker threw back their beer.

  There was a jug of water and a towel by Riven’s couch. He splashed himself vigorously, the coldness smarting his skin. But he felt more awake afterwards, and joined the others at the fire. The room was brighter now in the candlelight. He wondered how Thormod knew whether it was morning or night down here.

  ‘What’s happening?’ he asked as he creaked over to the table and selected an apple from the bowl there. Ratagan gave him a cup of beer.

  Thormod took the pipe out of his mouth and inspected it for a moment, a gesture so like Calum that Riven stared.

  ‘This morning, the council meets to wrangle out a few details of the story we are going to tell you later on in the day,’ Thormod said. ‘Our Teller is burnishing his skills and mining old lore from the eldest among us, so that he may present you with a polished tale the like of which you have never heard before.’

  ‘A tale!’ Riven exclaimed. ‘Yo
u mean he’s going to tell us stories?’

  ‘A story,’ Thormod corrected him.

  ‘A story.’ Exasperation crept into Riven’s voice and Bicker shot him a warning glance, which he ignored. ‘We haven’t time to sit here telling stories. I need answers, so we can decide where to go next, what to do.’

  Thormod puffed out blue smoke that writhed snakelike in the candlelight. His voice was mild, but the red light of his eyes had brightened.

  ‘This story will give you your answers,’ he said, his voice a bass register that Riven half-fancied he could feel vibrating in his bones. He subsided. Stories and magic. He knew the Dwarf was right. Stories and magic were at the heart of Minginish, and at the core of its connection with his own life. And the mountain, also. Sgurr Dearg had a role yet to play, of that he was sure.

  Jinneth came into the room and helped herself to a cup of the ale. Thormod regarded her from under his eyebrows. Calum watching his daughter. Riven shook his head and bit into cold bread.

  ‘Why do you stare?’ Jinneth asked the Dwarf defiantly. ‘Have I a flaw which interests you?’

  Thormod took the pipe out of his mouth and tamped down the bowl with one thick thumb. ‘Exactly,’ he said, taking her aback. ‘A flaw. I couldn’t have put it better myself.’ His eyes were like candlelit rubies shining above his beard.

  ‘Explain!’ Jinneth demanded, and her voice shook. Riven took a seat beside Ratagan.

  ‘You are flawed. There is something wrong with you,’ Thormod said. ‘The Teller here’—he gestured towards Riven—‘has something wrong with him also, but with him it is in the nature of a surfeit. He has too much in him, whereas you—you lack something. There is a hollowness in you I cannot plumb. Were it not for the suspicion within me that you are needed in this thing, I would have considered having you and your band of bravos slain as soon as you entered these mountains, but Orquil, one of the oldest of the council, said we should let you be, confirming my own instincts. You are a murderess, but not, I think, entirely evil.’