The Way to Babylon (Different Kingdoms) (51 page)

‘Perhaps we are in the hallway of a Dwarf’s mansion,’ Ratagan said, only half in jest. He perched himself on a blunt stalagmite comfortably and folded his arms. ‘Does it still hurt, to see her so near?’ he asked gently.

Riven looked at him. He seemed part of the stone in the dim light. ‘Yes. More so, up here. They have become even more similar.’

‘And she is meant to be here, you say,’ Ratagan mused. ‘By who? I wonder. And is it a good thing, or a bad thing?’

Riven shook his head. ‘I don’t think there’s any good or bad in this. It’s just the way it’s turned out, like an equation. Something that must happen. Meeting the Dwarves may be the catalyst to some sort of reaction.’

‘Ah.’ Ratagan tried not to look mystified, making Riven smile.

‘Do you believe she is evil?’ he asked the big man.

Ratagan’s brow furrowed. ‘Evil! What a word. A mighty term to be throwing about. No, I do not believe she is evil, though she does miserable things for pitiful ends. I think she does not truly know what she wants.’ He wrung his hands together as though washing them. ‘Killing is evil—taking a joy in it. Making laughter out of it. That is evil.’ His voice was heavy with grief.

Riven remembered him slaughtering the Sellswords at the campsite, his savage laughter following their retreating backs. ‘We all get carried away,’ he said lamely.

Ratagan looked up at him and smiled wryly. ‘Aye.’

A cold air blew up the passage and they both shivered, for they were half-naked, their clothes drying at the fire. The brand in Riven’s hand fluttered like a trapped bird and almost went out.

‘We’d better get back,’ he said, but for some reason neither of them moved. It was as though they were waiting for something to happen.

They listened, and heard nothing but the slow drip of water somewhere and their own quickening breathing. Then the brand went out, and they were smothered in darkness. Riven moved instinctively to Ratagan’s side, dropping the brand to the floor. His heartbeat rose like a dull thunder in his throat.

And then there was a light, a blue-white aura that slowly grew in the passage, lighting the walls and the high ceiling, spreading up and down in all directions; allowing them to see the four figures that surrounded them.

Four figures no more than five feet high, but massively broad, their shoulders wide as doors. They had long, thick beards and their huge fists gripped heavy hammers. Their foreheads were bald and gnarled, and in the pits below them, their eyes glittered with a red light.

‘Dwarves,’ Ratagan said hoarsely.

EIGHTEEN

‘W
E ARE THE
Graijhnehr, the Folk of Stone,’ one Dwarf said. His voice was as deep as the rumbling of a subterranean avalanche, and the red light flashed from his eyes like the glow of coals in a fire.

‘We are the oldest of all the peoples of the world, and we live the longest. We have seen the life of Minginish running from the time when the great woods covered the Vale and the hill of Talisker was uncrowned by any tower, to the present, when winter has replaced summer, beasts roam the land and men turn on each other to no good end.’

The cavern was low-ceilinged, Ratagan’s head scraping stone, but it stretched out to an immense distance on every side, the roof supported by thick pillars hewn out of the living rock. On the pillars were carved the shapes of men, women, animals—even Rime Giants and grypesh. Riven saw a gogwolf snarling on one, a Vyrman crouched on another, and a Myrcan standing stolidly on a third.

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 beer,’ 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.