The Way to Babylon (Different Kingdoms) (55 page)

NINETEEN

T
HE SNOW WAS
blinding in its whiteness, the bright sunlight setting it alight so they had to narrow their eyes against its glare. Above them, the sky was a flawless blue, a vast arch that rested on the peaks of the mountains that covered every horizon. Riven estimated their height at some twelve thousand feet. He sucked the thin air into his lungs and breathed out again in a nimbus of steam. He knew these mountains. They were too high, too big, but he recognised them. He could see the long curved sweep of the Cuillin Range from where he stood. He could make out Sgurr nan Gillean, Sgurr a Ghreadaidh, Sgurr na Banachdich... all those mountains he had once clambered upon, there in front of him, the heights of Alps now. The traverse of their peaks would not be easy. If the weather turned bad again, it could prove well-nigh impossible.

He glanced at Jinneth. The raw air had put colour into her cheeks and made her eyes sparkle. Her hair was flying free in the stiff breeze that blew snow off the high peaks in banners. There seemed nothing alien about her now; her face was as familiar to him as his own. He looked away.

The Dwarves had led them up winding stairs of countless steps that coiled inside the mountains, and had brought them out here, on the snow-hooded slopes of a high peak that overlooked the rest of the Greshorn Range to the north. The Staer, Thormod had told them, was just over a day’s journey away, and the guard the Dwarves had set upon the mountain had been recalled. Riven did not ask how. He had a feeling that the Vyrmen were not the only race of this world that could speak to each others’ minds.

And then the Dwarves had closed the stone of their door after them and retreated into their underworld mansion, leaving the mountainside as bare and unmarked as before, except where the snow had been disturbed.

And that was that. There were no longer any people whose advice could be sought, no sages whose wisdom would show him what to do. He was alone in this thing.

Almost done.

‘I hope you know the way, Bicker,’ he said to the dark man.

‘I could never forget it,’ Bicker said. ‘I did not come out here, though. I travelled lower down, along a shallow valley that lies on the other side ofthe ridge ahead. It will be a simple matter to pick up the trail.’

Riven tugged at a pack strap that was eating into his collar bone. ‘Let’s be off, then.’

The Dwarves had outfitted them well, equipping the five of them with thick clothing fashioned out of reindeer hide and trimmed with what looked suspiciously like Rime Giant fur. On their feet were spiked iron frames not unlike crampons, and they carried ropes and ice axes. The Dwarves had seen enough winters in the mountains to encourage them to develop such equipment, though Ratagan and Isay eyed it a trifle dubiously.

They trudged forward in Bicker’s wake, Riven behind the dark man, Isay next, then Jinneth, and Ratagan bringing up the rear. Their feet sank ankle-deep in the snow before the spikes on their boots gripped the ice beneath. They leaned on their axes and ploughed on doggedly, with the wind bringing tears to their eyes and whipping the hair back from their foreheads. It was a bitter blast, lashing the mountains and raising plumes of powdery snow from their summits so they seemed to be trailing white smoke into the clear sky. Their breath puffed out in clouds before it was snatched away, misting the fur of their clothes with rime. It searched for every seam, every gap, and wormed its way under their garments to steal the warmth from them. Despite their exertions, they were shuddering with cold as they walked. Riven wondered if snow was lying in the Dales, if Talisker was dusted with it, if Madra was even now watching it pile up at a window in Quirinus’s house and thinking about him. And was it falling at the bothy, on his home? It was rare to get snow there, since they were on the shore, but it had happened one year, one fine, cold winter’s day, and he and his wife had marvelled at it like children, and made an expedition of climbing the ridge and forging through the snow to the post office at Elgol, six miles away. They had arrived thick with snow, chilled to the bone, happy as summer swallows. A day to tell tall tales about, to mull over afterward when the fire was bright in the hearth and the driftwood was burning blue in the midst of the peat. That was luxury. Those were riches. He had been a wealthy man, and had not even known it.

And here he was again, in the midst of those mountains, only now they stood tall as dreams before him, savage and unforgiving, beautiful as a sword blade. He was glad that he knew enough now to be grateful for such things. They were worth hoarding, the bitter along with the sweet.

All day they plodded on, slowly losing height and making their way down to the path that Bicker knew. They dug their axes into the ice and stabbed their feet into the snow, cutting steps for themselves in places, roping themselves together in others; stumbling, tripping, slipping and sliding, helping each other and being helped without a word. Riven even saw Isay supporting Jinneth over a sheer ice sheet. They had come too far, he realised, to worry about treachery now, or to debate anything. There was only the one road left to travel.

They reached Bicker’s path after four hours of descent, the muscles in their legs quivering with strain, and set off without pause up the ridge beyond. Once they gained its height, they would be on the traverse itself, and would maintain altitude. Riven could not help wondering about where they would sleep that night if a storm crept up on them. The sky was still almost clear, but there were clouds skirmishing at the horizon’s rim, veiling the summits there with grey fog, and the wind was picking up farther. Even the Dwarf-made clothing could not keep out its bite.

They paused to look around, the air fighting to press them down on to the snow and ice of the ridge. They were almost a third of the way up. Another five or six thousand feet and they would be on the level of the peaks.

‘Work ahead,’ Ratagan said, peering at the summit above. ‘A long, weary way.’

‘We must do it before nightfall,’ Bicker said crisply. ‘The other side of the ridge is in the lee of the wind, and we will be able to make camp there.’

‘And burn snow for our fire, maybe,’ the big man retorted.

Bicker laughed. ‘The Stone-folk put enough faggots in our packs to give us a few hours’ warmth, so do not despair entirely.’

Ratagan brightened. ‘There is that. There is also the thought that I have a jar of their ale stowed away somewhere, which is bound to improve our outlook.’

‘What it is to think ahead,’ said Bicker. And he gestured them onwards again.

They laboured up the southern face of the ridge, as the day waned and a gale-bitten night loomed at them. The snow they trod became a bright luminescence as the sky darkened, clouds piling around the heads of the mountains. By the time they reached the top, it was almost wholly dark, and the wind was screaming around their heads, slamming into the southern side of the ridge like a wall. They scrambled over the knife-edge that was the summit and half-tumbled down the other side, their linking ropes pulling them down together. Isay and Ratagan anchored them like two rocks, their ironshod feet sinking deep into snow and ice, and the wind lessened as the bulk of the summit cut it off. They could see nothing in the gloom except the dark shapes of each other, sprawled, panting, in the snow. There was snow in the air, too. It whirled in eddies of wind and began to speckle them in the dusk. Bicker shrugged off his rope first and lurched to his feet. ‘We need better shelter than this. Come on!’

They followed him, cursing, the snow building on their eyelashes and cutting down visibility to yards. The thickening snowstorm forced them to halt again after a few minutes. Massive, monolithic rocks rose to their left, and the company wormed their way through them, finding at last a space big enough to accommodate them all. Riven sank to his haunches, for there was not room enough for them to stretch their legs. The wind shrilled about the tops of the sheltering stones. Ratagan was already struggling to dig the tinderbox out of his pack, whilst Bicker and Isay were tossing chunks of wood out of theirs. Riven and Jinneth joined them, but it was a shivering half-hour before Ratagan could get the tinder to catch and had warded the feeble flame well enough to kindle their meagre supply of wood. The rising flames conjured their faces out of the snow-woven darkness, easing the cramp that was settling into Riven’s confined limbs.

‘How long can we keep it going?’ he asked Ratagan, shouting to be heard above the wind.

The big man grimaced. ‘Not long enough. We can have a decent blaze for a couple of hours, not more, or a small one for twice that. But we need warmth. I’ll keep it high and see if the snow abates.’

They huddled together in the coruscating firelight, with the snow powdering their shoulders and the storm shrieking above. It would be a long night, even longer once the fire died.

One by one they fumbled their hide sleeping bags out of their packs and shared them. There was not room enough to clamber inside, so they draped them about their knees and shoulders and crept so close to the fire that they could smell the fur on the bags singeing.

Riven dozed, becoming used to the lost circulation in his cramped limbs. He dreamed, vaguely, his mind’s eye whirling with images of Giants and Dwarves, underground halls and high-walled cities. So much, so many pictures, and all of it he knew and recognised. But there was more, he realised: another chapter, perhaps, or a face which had yet to be seen. His dreams made him uneasy, and he swam out of sleep into the red gloom of the dying fire and the coldness of unmelting snow on his face. It was still dark, and the wind sounded as relentless as ever. He felt a moment of hate for the weather, the mountains, for everything that had conspired to bring him here.

Life’s a bitch.

He looked at his companions. They were asleep, even Isay. Bicker had volunteered to take first watch, but was crunched up with his eyes closed next to Ratagan, a frown marking his thin face as if, even in sleep, he was aware that he was failing in his duty. He was clearly exhausted. They had depended on him from the moment they had entered the mountains. It was for Bicker to lead, Isay to fight and Ratagan to make them laugh. Riven and Jinneth had been set aside for other purposes.

What a story it would make, if I could ever tell it.

It would not be easy to take these people, who had been his characters and who had become his friends, and make them into characters again.

But perhaps he would not be called upon to make up any more stories.

The fire died at last, guttering down into chill darkness, and the snow settled on the rest of the company as they dozed underneath the thick hide bags the Dwarves had given them. Slowly but surely the cold seeped into them, and Riven watched their shapes twitch and shiver in sleep, felt Jinneth push closer to him for warmth. He could not sleep himself. There was a jangling feeling that something had yet to happen. He had felt it before, prior to encountering Jinneth and her mercenaries, but now it was sharper, more precise. The closer he drew to the Red Mountain, the more keenly aware he was of... things. As though he were already stepping out of this world and becoming its author once more. The thought grieved him. He had roots here now, some running as deep as, or deeper than, any he had in the world where he belonged. He was not sure if he was prepared to sever them so easily, to wake from the dream. For if a man loves to dream more than remain awake, why should he open his eyes?

And he smiled at his own absurdity.

Bicker woke at some time during the night. Riven heard him swearing and cursing himself. Then he shook each of the company awake and and asked them their names to check that they had not slipped into hypothermia in the dark, fireless hours. Ratagan swore at him and told him to go jump off the mountain and leave him to sleep. Only Jinneth seemed slow to answer, as if confused, and the dark man spent some time checking that she was fully conscious. It was only when she roused herself and told him to leave her alone in much the same tones as Ratagan that he left her, his teeth shining in a grin.

The snow had stopped falling. Riven could feel its weight on his shoulders and knees, pressing the bag down on him. The space where the fire had been was a blank whiteness, but he was not cold. It seemed as if the snow were insulating him. Only his face was chill, and he rubbed feeling back into his nose and cheeks for some minutes. His eyes were like orbs of frozen glass set in his skull, and he blinked his stiff eyelids furiously. There was a blueness about the air above that heralded the approach of dawn. Bicker was already out of the shelter of the stones and scanning the way ahead for the day. The last day. Sgurr Dearg was very close.

They hauled themselves out from under the combined weight of snow and their sodden sleeping bags, having to dig for their packs. Riven was shivering uncontrollably as he crammed the wet bag into his pack. Around them, the dark shapes of the high mountains began to become clearer as the light strengthened, moving from blue to grey. They packed in silence, except for mutterings against the cold and hisses of breath that plumed in the frigid air. Riven felt as though the ice had insinuated its way into his brain; he was torpid and dull. Ratagan’s sudden cry of triumph roused him from his stupor. The big man was holding up an earthenware jar and levering the seal from its neck with feverish care. Then he offered it round.

‘I had an idea this might do us good at some point.’

Dwarven ale. Riven took two generous swallows and the stuff warmed his throat and ignited a glow in his stomach a second later. His shivering ceased. He stood and watched the slow seep of pale light in the east that was the dawning sun, the ice in his mind melting away. He returned Ratagan’s grin and Bicker’s wry look, nodded at Isay, who looked incredibly young with his lengthening crew cut and cold-pinched face. And he studied Jinneth until she cocked an eyebrow at him and drank from the jar. He knew it was the last morning he would ever see with these people, and while the thought grieved him, he knew also that it had to be, that the best things are better not savoured too long. Jenny had shown him that, but Madra had made him believe it. That was something this world had given him. It was enough, perhaps. Perhaps. He felt like a child hauled away from a toyshop window. There had been no time, no chance to stop and stare. Now all there was to see were the mountains, where it had begun. This story’s Teller had a sense of fitness, at least.