The Rose of the World (17 page)

There did not seem much love involved in the creation of the scene before their eyes; indeed, it appeared a place inimical to all life: for what creature could breathe air filled with burning fragments and charged with noxious gases? What bird could fly amidst flaming clouds? What beast could forage for nourishment on its burning, barren slopes? To Aran Aranson it seemed the antithesis of life, this mountain of fire: it seemed the location where the world would draw to a terrible close, rather than the source whence life had come.

‘Where is this place?’ he asked the mage fearfully.

The Master, without taking his eyes from the hellish scene before them said nothing for many long moments. Then he swung the levers once more and plunged the bowl of light into vivid turmoil. ‘That place is known as the Red Peak,’ he said softly. ‘And one of you will be going there as your task.’

‘Task?’ said Aran sharply. ‘What task?’

The old man smiled, though there was no warmth in it. ‘You did not think I had brought you to my Sanctuary out of the goodness of my heart?’

Urse and Aran exchanged stricken glances. ‘We thought . . . we . . .’ the big man started, before stuttering to a halt.

‘We thought you had taken pity on our plight,’ Aran Aranson finished for him.

The mage’s smile widened, revealing long yellow teeth amidst the copious beard.‘Pity,’ he mused.‘Ah, I have almost forgotten the meaning of the word. ‘ “Pity stayed his hand” – is that not what one of the old myths tells us? When the hero strikes down the beast and sees the fear in the creature’s eyes and recognises that it has a soul which matches his own and cannot bring himself to make the killing stroke?’

Aran frowned. He knew the tale – what child did not? For Sur had spared the life of the great dragon known as the Long Serpent, and it had finally repaid his compassion with treachery, rising up out of the waters of the Northern Ocean a year later to overturn his ship and kill his crew. It was a tale passed down from generation to generation and, like the story of the King and the Black Mountain trolls, it had a maxim at its heart: deal with your problems today, for if left they will only get larger.

‘It was not pity which brought you here,’ the mage told him, ‘but greed, as well you know,’ and his eyes were flinty. ‘But your greed shall be rewarded with treasures beyond any you imagine, if only you will pay my price.’

And before the men could say a word, the Master stepped up to Urse One-Ear and passed his hand across Urse’s forehead. The giant swayed where he stood. Then the mage muttered a string of sounds which Aran Aranson could make no sense of – except for the word ‘bet’ which was repeated over and over; and this word he remembered he had heard the old man utter before, though he knew not what it meant. He watched Urse’s face contort itself as if he was suddenly terrified; but when the mage tapped him lightly on the temples, his eyes were as clear and unafraid as they had always been, and he seemed quite unchanged.

‘You have your task, my Giant,’ the Master said in a satisfied tone.

In response, Urse nodded slowly. ‘I have my task,’ he said, and his voice was not his own, but leaden and inflectionless.

Aran stared at his shipmate in horror, then at the old man. ‘What have you done to him?’ he cried accusingly.

‘Done?’ The Master laughed. ‘I have given him purpose where there was none before. It is my gift to him: the greatest gift any man can receive. The Giant now has a reason to live, and to die. He should be grateful to me: for he will become a legend now in his own right.’

The Master turned to Aran Aranson. ‘And now it is your turn.’

The dark man backed away from him, his grey eyes sparking fear. ‘Do not touch me, nor expect me to accept this “gift”!’ Aran backed towards the door. ‘I will take my chance with the arctic wilds and leave this place empty-handed rather than take any task of yours!’

The door behind him swung suddenly closed with a soft thud, and when he turned to grab at the handle, he found there was none; nor indeed any door.

The Master smiled and wiped his brow. ‘This magic is an exhausting thing sometimes,’ he said. ‘Let me show you something in the glass before we proceed further. I would not wish to damage you through lack of care or strength.’ And he led an unresisting Aran Aranson back to the bowl of light and twisted the levers once more.

Clouds and landscape sped past below them. Buildings of stone loomed up and veered away; hillsides dotted with cattle; a hundred half-made ships bobbed in a shallow anchorage. Aran glimpsed women running from soldiers bearing flaming torches, a town square packed with an avid crowd; men marching across rough terrain. He saw carts full of weaponry trailing one another along paved southern roadways, he saw a monstrous creature rising up out of a stormy ocean then disappearing from view so fast that he was not able to ask for a closer view; then more sea, waves breaking on jagged reefs, a swirl of gulls over the bays and headlands of a familiar coastline. There was a sudden blurring as the Master swung the crystals swiftly, and then suddenly there was Halbo, the sentinel pillars rising grimly from a choppy sea and a towering castle of granite shining pink and grey in a setting sun.

‘Ah,’ breathed the mage, ‘now we shall have her.’

He adjusted the viewing crystals minutely until the scene hovered like a bird’s eye view of Eyra’s capital. People were milling about the town below the castle’s walls, laying in stores it seemed, for dozens of carts were progressing to the gates laden high with provisions, whilst on the hill on the landward side other carts were coming out empty. Down at the docks there was a ferment of activity. Men scurried here and there, unloading cargoes from barges, piling up shipments on the quayside, then transferring them to the waiting carts; mending sails, coiling lines, stacking weaponry. Hundreds of ships were arrayed in the harbour beyond, riding safe at anchor, jostling one another like a flock of seabirds sheltering from a storm.

‘War,’ breathed the mage. ‘A time of violence and great opportunity.’

Now he brought the vista in closer. On top of the castle lay a garden which had remained green, even in the midst of winter. And in the middle of that green was a pale fire: a woman in white, her silver-blonde hair spilling down her back like a waterfall. When she turned he felt his heart still and then break into a swift and ragged rhythm. In her arms she held a child, a small black-headed thing wrapped in a scarlet shawl, mouth stretched in a soundless howl. Behind her stood a man – King Ravn Asharson – his long black hair blowing in the wind, a fond smile etched on his handsome face as he took the child from his nomad-wife’s arms and rocked it to apparent silence.

‘What?’ cried the Master.‘That cannot be. It is most unnatural, uncanny, impossible . . .’

A cloud fell between them and the woman, allowing Aran to drag his eyes from the scene.

‘Surely it is the most natural thing in the world,’ he said, staring at the mage.

‘Indeed,’ said the Master shortly, ‘it is not.’

He reached abruptly across the space between them and grasped Aran by the forehead, his long bony fingers spanning the flesh between hairline and brow.

Wrenching himself away, Aran cried out. ‘No! I will do her no harm. Not for you, or any other—’

The Master steadied himself against the bowl. ‘Believe me,’ he said vehemently, ‘you will do as you are bidden, or you will die here, the most painful death I can devise: and I know many ways to make a man suffer.’

‘Nothing you can do to me can be worse than what I have already done to myself.’

The Master raised an eyebrow. This one would need to have his spirit broken before he would be the useful tool he required. With apparent nonchalance he waved a hand.

‘Have it your way, for now. Let me show you a little of what I can do, and maybe then you will change your mind about resisting me.’ Then he turned to the silent, volition-less creature which was Fent Aranson. ‘You will go to the Red Peak,’ he told him, enunciating each word with great care. ‘You will travel south through all of Istria with my protection upon you until you come to the Dragon’s Backbone. Then you must find the mountain of fire. Within it lies my enemy.’ He closed his eyes. ‘He has been there for a very long time. More than three hundred years, and I feel his strength returning. If he breaks free, nothing can save me. You are the key.’

Fent’s eyes focused for the first time, and settled on the mage’s face. He smiled: a beatific smile as of one blessed with a divine secret.

‘I am the Madman,’ he said. ‘I am the key.’

‘You are bound to my service. I have a great task for you.’

‘Bound to service . . . a great task . . .’

‘Repeat after me,’ the Master said, holding his gaze intently. ‘The Madman must find the Warrior.’

Fent’s eyes gleamed with an inner light. ‘The Madman must find the Warrior,’ he repeated.

‘And kill him.’

‘And kill him.’

‘Now give me your injured arm.’

Slowly, Fent raised his truncated limb and extended its charred stump towards the mage. The Master regarded the ruined arm sorrowfully. ‘I am sorry that my snowbear had to take your hand; but the one I shall give you now will be stronger by far.’ Taking the burned end in his own grip, he summoned all his strength and uttered three words of command. At once, the air filled with buzzing. Down from the eaves came a swarm of translucent creatures: not bats, it seemed, nor any other recognisable beast. Bigger than bees they were, and smaller than birds, but beyond that it was impossible to make out any detail, since they moved so swiftly and so constantly around the site of the injury. Like spiders, they wove a glistening web: but no gossamer was this, for what they spun appeared to be strands of a substance that gleamed like silver or moonlight on water.

A fierce light filled the icy tower room, a light which was neither white nor blue but some painful aspect between these two, and Aran had to shield his eyes from the glare. As the buzzing grew louder, he held his head, trying to shut out the noise. Turning, he found Urse One-Ear already hunkered down on the floor, whimpering like a tortured animal. The silence, when it fell, seemed deafening, as if all the sound in the world had been sucked into a sudden void. Vivid red after-images chased each other across Aran Aranson’s eyes. Even with the wicked light fled away, it took him several seconds to focus.

A dark figure stood before him. He knew in the logical part of his mind that it must be his son: his youngest boy, twin Katla’s, who had gone to the bad in so many ways, yet remained always Fent; but at the same time it clearly was not. He squeezed his eyes shut, to allow the image to dispel, as if this new apparition was itself an after-effect of the mage’s spell, some chancy trick of the light. But when he opened them again, the figure was still there, as unnerving as ever. He quailed before it, suddenly afraid.

The Master walked in a circle around the boy, admiring his handiwork. ‘Well, well,’ he said at last. ‘It seems I have outdone myself. The old powers are not lost after all!’

Looming behind Aran Aranson, Urse One-Ear got slowly to his feet, looking disorientated and confused. At last his eyes came to rest on Fent Aranson – or whatever Fent Aranson had become – and then it seemed he could not drag them away. Mesmerised, he stared and stared. When the figure moved towards him, he cried out and turned to run. Out of nowhere the door reappeared, opened itself and allowed him egress. His receding footsteps echoed away down the winding stairs.

The Master laughed long and hard. Then he placed a comforting hand on Aran’s shoulder.‘Do not worry, Captain, he knows the path he must follow now. I have conveyed to him his task; and now you must learn to accept yours.’

Aran stared at him wildly, the whites showing all around his dark pupils. ‘What have you done to him?’

In response, the Master smiled. ‘Do not concern yourself with that, my friend; for he is more now than he was, and what father would not wish such for his son? Now you and I will make a voyage of discovery, for there is something you need to see before all your ties to the petty things of this world are broken and you will give yourself wholeheartedly to the deed you must do for me.’

Eleven

Kitten’s Revenge

Day dawned a cold and streaky red. ‘Sailor’s warning,’ Katla thought. ‘Unfortunately, a day too late.’

Her bones creaked. If she breathed in hard, her ribs burned. Her right leg felt like a lump of wood, except when she tried to flex some life into it. Sharp pain shot up into her thigh, making her wince.

‘Sur’s teeth, what a mess I’m in.’ And that wasn’t even taking into consideration the throbbing of her head every time she moved it, or the shudders of heat and chill that kept running through her.

No one else was awake; and she had no wish to disturb them, for now. She had a plan – of sorts.

Further down the beach the rope lay like a sleeping serpent, stretched out where she’d left it to dry. From her assessment of the cliffs, they reached to the height of maybe seventy or eighty feet. She hoped there would be enough rope for the task, given that most of it was unavailable to them, attached as it was to the ship. She located the knot which held the two lines she had used to make the single length together and picked it up. The rope was still damp, but not sodden, the knots shrunken and clinging from use, and it took her ten sweaty minutes to part the two ropes. Sighing with relief, Katla coiled the freed rope as she walked landward, the crunching pebbles digging painfully into her bare soles.

At first close examination the cliff proved flaky and undependable, the sort of stuff that would come away in your hand or crumble underfoot at just the wrong moment. She shivered. Even falling onto sand from halfway up would mean serious damage. She didn’t usually allow herself such dangerous conjectures; but she wasn’t even sure she could trust her abilities in the state she was in, let alone the rock.

She walked eastward, scanning the cliffs as she went, looking for a possible route to the top. It looked dreadful stuff: compacted shale, more like pie crust than rock. In places, it had tumbled down in little avalanches of earth and stone; but the ravines left by these falls looked even more dangerous than the sheer faces which flanked them. Soon, she reached the end of the bay. There was no way around the headland from the beach: the rock plunged black and vertical into rough water. Sighing, Katla walked away, the rope weighing her down till her joints moaned and creaked. Moving west again, she came upon a vein of quartz she had missed on her first cursory inspection. It was perhaps a foot across, narrowing as it rose to the summit. Harder than the surrounding rock, it stood proud against the shale like a rib, curving away from the eye into the light. Katla put a hand to it and was almost blown off her feet by the blast of energy it gave back to her. At once, she felt invaded. Voices seemed to jabber at her, many of them, all talking at the same time; or maybe it was just one voice speaking in different tongues, creating a great clamour of sound she could take nothing intelligible from. She took her hand away and the noise vanished. Experimentally, she touched the shale and got nothing back but a background hum, low level, easy to ignore. But the shale wouldn’t go, even for her, let alone the rest of the women, most of whom had never even climbed a tree, not to mention a cliff. Even so, she walked to the other end of the bay, knowing as she did so it was wasted effort, that the rock had made its best option known to her. Wearily, Katla retraced her steps to the quartz vein and uncoiled the rope. Tying one end around her waist, she scanned for holds, then stepped up onto the shining rib.