EIGHT

 

 

GWION THE STEWARD was a small, stout man with a good-natured face. He had been the innkeeper of Riven’s daydreams in Beechfield, a minor character in one of his books. In this world, however, he had a wife called Ygelda, a tall, bronzed woman with masses of coppery hair bound up at the back of her head and a wide, matronly figure. She took one look at Riven with her hands on her hips, making him feel like a schoolboy caught in mischief, and ordered her husband to escort him to the quietest room he could find, since ‘the poor man looks about done.’ Gwion obeyed without demur, a sheepish smile on his face—a smile Riven had seen him wear in his dreams. He was staring at the steward almost as intently as he was being stared at as he was led to his room.

He found he had been given a small guest room on the first floor that faced north. The walls were a mixture of stone and dark wood panelling. There was a bed spread with soft, gaudy rugs, and a table laden with a washing basin, a large jug of beer and a plate of fresh fruit. On the bed also there was a change of clothes. It was luxury itself after the nights sleeping out.

Riven poured himself some of the malty beer and stood sipping it, looking out of the window at the Circle and the Dale beyond. The sunset was flushing the sky pink and orange, and the room was becoming gloomy. Riven wondered absently if he was supposed to sleep with the sun when the door was knocked and Gwion came in with two wooden candlesticks and a handful of pale candles.

‘Been so much on my mind today I nearly forgot,’ he said breathlessly. ‘I am sorry; what is it coming to? Letting guests sit alone in the dark. What will you think of us?’ He set the candles in their holders and produced a flint and steel and a small iron box. ‘There.’ He looked at Riven, who was sipping his beer moodily. ‘Now, sir, is there anything else you want or need? I’m at a loss as to what a foreign knight would be needing for himself.’

Riven smiled despite himself. ‘No, everything is fine. It couldn’t be better.’

‘Well, we do our best,’ Gwion said, obviously pleased. He went out again. ‘A pleasant night to you, sir,’ and was gone.

Riven continued to smile to himself as the gloom deepened in the room and he could watch the lights start up in the Dale, twinkling like gems in a mine. He poured himself some more beer, feeling in need of a good wash and a change of socks, but delayed getting them, knowing that they were possible now. There were too many things in his head, like silt in a stirred stream, and he wanted some of them to settle in the quiet of the room.

He finished his flagon, checking that the jug was not empty, and then undressed, his legs complaining to him now they could make themselves heard over the impossibilities. But he was glad to bother only about physical ache, beer in the belly, the prospect of a soft bed under him, the encroaching darkness; glad to switch off his mind for a while.

The water in the basin was lukewarm as he splashed in it, and scrubbed himself from head to foot. Then, hair dripping in his eyes, he examined the clothes that had been set out for him. He had a suspicion that they were Bicker’s, for he and the dark man were not unalike in size. A pair of breeches which seemed to be made of suede, and a linen shirt with no collar and wide sleeves. He donned them, and hummed as he set to lighting the candles. The box contained shredded rags that smelt vaguely inflammable, and he clicked a few sparks on to them warily. They caught at once and he lit a candle, snuffing out the tinder by closing the box.

Immediately the world outside became invisible, and there was only the candlelit room and himself. He lit three candles, positioning them around the room, and then lay back on the bed with the beer at his side.

The candles had hardly burned down an inch when he was woken from a doze by a heavy knock on the door. He started, jumped up, and opened it to find Murtach and Ratagan standing there clutching bottles and glasses.

‘We thought we could hardly leave you alone on your first night in Ralarth Rorim,’ Murtach said as he let them in. There was a dark movement as Fife and Drum entered behind him, the candlelight kindling their eyes briefly.

‘And we’ve not come empty-handed,’ Ratagan added. His face was flushed and he leaned heavily on a stick, but his eyes were bright.

The bottles and glasses were placed on the table, and Murtach set about opening the wine.

‘Let the great ones discuss matters of import downstairs,’ he said. ‘We have better things to do, like tasting this twenty-year-old Drinan which Gwion will probably not even notice is missing.’ The cork popped, and he sniffed the neck of the bottle and closed his eyes. ‘Nectar.’ Then he poured three glasses of the deep, red liquid, ruby in the candlelight.

‘Some say a wine should be left to breathe,’ he said, handing round the glasses. ‘Myself, I think that the poor thing has waited long enough and deserves to have its suspense ended at once. To the fire in your loins! May it never burn your fingers.’ And he tossed down a gulp of wine.

Riven did likewise. It was sweet, fruity, but very strong. It made the candles in the room sparkle and his throat glow.

‘Well, Michael Riven,’ Murtach said with sudden gravity. ‘What do you think of Ralarth Rorim—and, indeed, of all Minginish?’

‘There’s a question.’ Riven took another drink of his wine. He was not sure he wanted to talk to Murtach on this subject, but the shapeshifter spoke first, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

‘When I was in your world, acting my part, I saw your books displayed in windows. I bought them, and read them—even your world’s writing is not a problem for the people of this land, once they have crossed over—and I was shaken. I was frightened, Mr Riven, because I was in them, and so was Ratagan here, and Bicker, and the Warbutt and Ralarth Rorim itself. And do you know—can you remember what the story of your books was?’

Riven did not meet his eyes. ‘I remember.’

Murtach nodded. ‘Of course you do. You are the creator of the story. You are the Teller of the tale.’

‘What does the story say?’ Ratagan interrupted brusquely. He sounded impatient.

Murtach smiled. ‘The story chronicled the history of this land, through wars and intrigue, battle and strife—and into winter. The story takes place in winter, a winter that destroys the land, bringing the beasts down out of the mountains until three heroes go on a quest to save their world, travelling north into the teeth of the blizzards.’

‘And?’ Ratagan asked, cocking one thick eyebrow.

‘And nothing, my beer-swilling friend. The story remains unfinished. It awaits a third volume to chronicle the redemption—or destruction, I suppose—of the world.’ Murtach paused, a diabolical grin illuminating his face. ‘We are the three heroes, Ratagan: Bicker, you and I.’

Ratagan’s glass paused in midair. He gazed at Riven. ‘I see,’ he said mildly.

Riven knocked back his wine, feeling it leap to his brain, but he held out the glass for a refill and Ratagan obliged him. The big man’s face was troubled, but he said nothing more.

‘So,’ Murtach went on, ‘maybe now you can appreciate why we brought you to Minginish, Michael Riven. We must work out how exactly you and your stories interact with this land. In the hall you said you had created us. Maybe that is even true.’

‘Don’t be absurd,’ Riven snapped.

The smaller man merely looked at him. ‘You sit here in the company of characters you had thought you had drawn out of your imagination, in a world which the laws of your own place say cannot exist. The word “absurd” had best not be bandied about too lightly.’ Murtach smiled again, but the smile did not reach his eyes.

‘I agree with Bicker when he believes that the turning point in this was your wife’s death. That triggered off the changes in Minginish which correspond to your story. It opened the first door, tearing a hole in the fabric between your world and ours.’

‘What about before?’ Riven asked. ‘What about your history?’

‘The same as you have drawn it,’ Murtach admitted. ‘Some things are different—the name Minginish itself, for instance—but for the most part your portrayal of this place, its people, its politics, is accurate.’

‘Whoopee,’ Riven muttered.

‘What was your wife like, Michael Riven?’

He seemed to have heard the question before, somewhere else. He shook his head. That was one train of thought he was not going to follow. Not tonight.

‘Forget it.’

Murtach gazed at him soberly. ‘She may be here.’

‘She’s dead!’ Riven rasped in reply. He gulped more wine. The candles burned like yellow stars in the room, the night looming like a cloud outside the window. Jenny was out there now, in the darkness. He felt the familiar bite of grief and anger. A Jenny who had not recognised him, who had run from him at the bothy. But his wife, nonetheless.

‘I agree also with Bicker, when he observes that our unnatural winter here ceased as soon as you had left your old home—as soon as you were leaving your memories behind, and who knows? Perhaps even gaining some contentment. So there we are. Your mood improves, and suddenly we have sunshine. But our crops are still ruined. We still face famine this winter. And the beasts still harry the land, killing where they will. When the cold weather arrives in its proper place—if it does—then the old and young will be the first to die. For the Dales, at least, the damage is already irreparable.’

Riven’s face twisted. ‘What do you expect me to do? All I did was write some stories, and then my wife was killed. I can’t help the way I feel. I can’t stop any of this... it’s just so hard to believe,’ he ended plaintively.

‘Hard to believe!’ Murtach repeated. ‘You’re sitting here in the middle of it! How can you not believe?’

‘Because it’s like something out of a book.’

‘It is something out of a book—your book! And when you tell stories, our people die!’

They glared at each other, Murtach’s wolves tensed and expectant on the floor between them, ears stiff. Then Ratagan’s deep voice broke the silence.

‘Ye gods, my belly feels as though it’s a butter churn in full swing. Strong stuff, this little vintage. Maybe I should stick to beer.’ They both switched their eyes to him with something like relief. He patted his broad stomach and frowned. ‘I’ll survive, though.’ He looked at Murtach and Riven and grinned. ‘Interrupt something, did I?’

Murtach laughed, and thumped him on the shoulder. ‘You are more shrewd drunk than sober, you great bear.’ Then he stood up and bowed formally to Riven. ‘As the Warbutt said, manners and courtesy are sadly lacking these days. You are a guest here. Forgive me. I am an ill-mannered sot for trying you so. I will say no more on weighty subjects—it will ruin the wine.’ He sat down again and emptied the first bottle. ‘Ask me any question you will, and I will try to answer it. I am sure there is much you would yet like to know about the Rorim, and about Minginish.’

Riven was suspicious for a second, but the small man seemed sincere. He sipped his wine.

‘The Rorim—there are others like it, aren’t there?’

Murtach nodded. ‘Our closest neighbours are Carnach Rorim to the east, under Mugeary, and Garrafad to the north, under Bragad. Carnach is higher up in the hills, and has suffered even more than we from the depredations of the beasts—the Giants, especially. Garrafad has been more fortunate. Bragad has mobilised its people into militias and organised regular patrols of his entire Dale. He has fought pitched battles against veritable armies of wolves and grypesh, the rat-boars; but we do not have many dealings with him. He is a deep man, a man with many hidden corners to his mind. And he speaks well. I do not trust him.

‘There are other Rorim, of course, farther to the east and west. Tulm and Gruamach, Pollagan and Moonen. All face the same problems. We have not enough trained warriors to safeguard the Dales and the surrounding hills.’

‘I’m not surprised. You can’t do much with two dozen men.’

‘Hearthwares are Myrcan-trained,’ Ratagan broke in, touching for a moment the sash around his middle. ‘And then we have the Myrcans themselves, eight of them here in Ralarth. Each one is worth a company of any other soldiers. Formerly, in times of need, we would have enlisted the services of the Free Companies—Sellswords who auction their skills to the highest bidder. But none has been seen here in the south for almost a year. It must be that the cities have taken them all into employ, to protect the fiefs beyond their walls. Bragad has been trying to persuade the Rorim to combine their forces and launch a campaign of sorts into the mountains to exterminate as many of the Dale’s attackers as is possible, but that is not the answer.’

‘Why not?’ Riven asked. ‘Seems like a good idea to me.’

‘It is not, for several reasons,’ Murtach said. ‘Firstly, these animals cannot be brought to bay as though they were an organised army, even if at times they act like one. Secondly, Bragad insists that such a combined force should be under his own command, since he is experienced in dealing with large numbers of men through his militias. And thirdly, our friend the Lord of Garrafad has always wanted to wear a pair of boots several sizes bigger than those he presently owns.’

‘What are you going to do, then?’

Murtach fondled Fife’s ears. ‘Organise our own people, after a fashion. Increase the numbers of the Hearthwares, as the Warbutt said earlier. There is nothing much else we can do.’

Except speculate about me, Riven thought. He wondered if he was to be nothing more than a pawn in this, his own story.

Not if I can help it.

But it was so odd. So damned weird to be here, doing this. Drinking this wine with the candles glowing and a pair of wolves dozing on the floor at his feet. To be dressed in tunic and breeches, to watch the night gather over the far hills that had nothing to do with the world he called his own. He felt a twisting regret that his grief had to overshadow everything, and immediately loathed himself for it. How could he sit here enjoying this, submitting himself to it, whilst—

No. Enough.

They drank on for a while, until the first words began to slur and the candles had burned low. But the wine ended. It was Ratagan who poured the last drop of it into his glass and then kissed it away.

‘Time to leave,’ Murtach said, standing up and swaying. Then he grimaced. ‘I could do with some air.’

The three made their way to the window, Ratagan humming happily and supporting himself on Riven’s shoulder. The window swung open on protesting hinges and cold night air seeped into them, clearing their heads.

Below them, Ralarth spread out in the darkness of a starlit night, lights peppering the Dale here and there, the darker shapes of the hills rearing up beyond them. An owl hooted nearby, and they could hear the stream babbling to itself in the quiet. Sheep bleated, far off, and a dog barked, then was silent.

Ratagan breathed in deeply, and Murtach leaned on the sill, his eyes lost in the night. Softly, he said:

‘I love this place.’

Then they turned away, wished Riven a good night and a better morning, and left, closing the door soundlessly behind them.

 

 

IT WAS RAINING when Riven awoke, and the room was full of a fine spray from the open window. He lay still for a moment, wondering where the hell he was, then got up, hopping with cold, and closed the window. He clambered into bed again, wondering what time breakfast was. To his relief, his head was clear. He drank some water from a pitcher by the bed, and listened to the weather. His hands bunched into fists, crumpling the rough linen of the bed, and he felt the texture rub on his palms, on his back, the side of his face. He felt the cold air from the window, and his feet tingled from the remembered contact with the stone floor.

This is all real, as real as me. I am inside it, breathing, touching, tasting it.

But how?

Brief snatches of physics he drew before his wandering mind, but nothing resembled an explanation. He was not in some well-disguised pantomime. The people were real.

For some reason he remembered Gwion, the Steward, and felt an absurd pleasure at recalling the character from his books. The same. The same, by God, down to the fussy manner and the beaming smile.

I know these people.

Something like logic hovered just out of his grasp as he recalled the night before, the faces of Ratagan and Murtach vivid with wine and candlelight. He had the sense of recognition, almost of deja vu; but it was hopeless for his conscious mind to try and batten it down, to draw lines around it.

He lay in the bed. His feet became warm and he breathed in the beautiful, impossible air; and something like a smile appeared on his face, so that for a moment he looked like a boy.

Soon after there was a tap at the door, and a young girl entered carrying a tray. She kept her eyes on her burden as she came in, but darted a quick glance at him to wish him a good morning. Riven wished her one back, again conscious of his scarred face.

She set the tray on the table and began arranging the breakfast things. ‘My name is Madra,’ she said shyly. ‘Ratagan told me to bring you your breakfast, sir, and ask if’—she smiled involuntarily—‘if your head is on speaking terms with your stomach. He says you will find him in the hall later, if you have a mind to go there.’ She straightened. ‘You had better eat before it gets cold.’ Then she went out, closing the door behind her.

Riven got up and dressed swiftly, bolting the steaming porridge and buttermilk that was breakfast, and leaving his room straight afterwards. He wondered what Bicker was doing, then remembered Murtach’s hot eyes from the night before.

‘It is something out of a book—your book.’

My book. Maybe. But there’s more to it than that.

The Manse was a maze of panelled corridors and sudden windows, stairs and arches, doors and alcoves. Riven met several of the attendants on his way to the hall—or, at least, he assumed they were attendants. And once he passed a blue-sashed Hearthware who was so lost in thought he did not even notice him.

A shout of welcome told him that he was at last in the right place. The hall was empty except for Ratagan and a short, spider-thin woman who stood beside him, dressed in rich, dark wool and with many rings on her fingers. The big man sat by the firepit with a jug at his side, whittling a stick. The only sound was the rain on the high windows.

‘Michael Riven! Madra tells me that you are alive and well this wet morning. I thought you might like to provide an injured man with company.’

The eyes of the woman switched to Riven then. They were dark and bright as a bird’s, uncomfortably sharp, but the deep worry lines around them dimmed their effect.

‘Indeed,’ the woman said. ‘So this is the Teller from the foreign land beyond the sea.’ Her voice was as reedy as a young girl’s. ‘Will you not introduce us, Ratagan?’

The big man seemed chagrined. ‘Of course. Mother, you know who Michael Riven is.’ He flapped one large hand, his whittling knife flashing as he did. ‘This is the Lady Ethyrra, my mother.’

Riven bowed awkwardly, unsure what to say or do. The woman nodded primly, the grey in her hair plain against the darkness of it.

‘I will leave you both, then,’ she said. ‘I am sure you and my son can do without me leaning over your shoulders. Perhaps, Michael Riven’—she laboured over the unfamiliar name—‘you can persuade my son to be more careful with himself when he goes out roaming the country with the beasts.’ Then she left them, her skirts a long whisper on the flagged floor. Ratagan looked unmistakably relieved, and there was a pause in the silence she left behind her.

Riven sat down, and Ratagan’s knife scraped thinly at his stick.

‘Where is everybody?’ Riven asked the big man at last.

Ratagan tapped the stick on one hand, his brow clearing. ‘There’s a question. Today all is a hurry and a scurry, for they are out after a large pack of grypesh that raided the flocks last night, and it is said it was led by a Rime Giant. I believe it to be farmer’s fears, myself—but they are on the hunt, nonetheless: Bicker, Murtach, Dunan and six other Hearthwares, plus Luib and Ord of the Myrcans. My father is doing his harried best to calm down the other herdsmen.’ He made a sudden, vicious swipe at the floor with the stick. ‘Whilst I, and you, are stuck here.’ He threw up his hands. ‘So we forgo the fun, it seems. The only consolation’—he peered at the windows—‘is that they are getting wet. Guillamon has threatened to stop supplying me with beer if I so much as poke an unwashed toe outside and everyone in the Manse is busy with something or other, so we are left, ourselves to amuse ourselves.’

Riven was disappointed. He had hoped to talk to Bicker this morning, and perhaps see some more of Ralarth.

‘Murtach doesn’t like me,’ he said by way of conversation.

Ratagan barked a laugh. ‘Ably put. But you are wrong, Michael Riven. It is not that he does not like you; he does not like the world you come from, and he does not like his land to be at the mercy of someone who is from that world. It makes him unsure. Murtach resembles a cat: he likes to know where he is putting his feet, and you have strewn his path with pitfalls. Is it any wonder the poor lad does not take kindly to you?’

‘What about you, then—and everybody else, come to that? Is the whole Rorim secretly after my blood?’

‘You do us a grave disservice,’ Ratagan answered. ‘Myself, I will place my shoulder next to anyone I like, whether they have the fate of worlds on their shoulders or they shovel dung for a living. A man is a man, whatever he does. That is how I judge.

‘As for the rest of the Rorim... my dear fellow, the serving maids are in mortal awe of you, the Knight from the Isle of Mists. Murtach and I had to give you some sort of title, so we settled on that one. At any rate, they were arguing this morning over who would bring you breakfast, so I told Madra to take it, for she is prettier than most and has more than thistledown between her ears.’

They both laughed, though Riven could not recall what the girl that morning had looked like. He remembered her voice, though. Low. And the smile.

‘Besides,’ Ratagan went on, scraping again at his stick, ‘you are a guest here, invited by the heir of the Warbutt. Hospitality is an unwritten law in this land, though from what Murtach tells me, it is not in yours. For the time being, at least, you are a member of this household as much as I am.’ He began to whistle through his teeth as the slivers of white wood fell to the floor and the rain drummed away on the window panes.

Then he stood up surprisingly swiftly, though he still leaned on the stick. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘I can see you are in no mood to pass the time in light banter, Teller of Tales. And me, I have yet to eat this morning, so we’ll make our way to the kitchens and annoy Colban, then find a window to watch Ralarth in the rain. What say you?’

Riven agreed readily, and followed him out of the hall. He disliked sitting in the great emptiness; he half expected to find the Warbutt in their midst at any moment.

The kitchens were a cluster of large and small rooms at the back of the Manse, littered with wooden chopping tables and freestanding hearths, supporting several huge pots. There were iron-doored ovens set in the walls, joints of meat hanging from the rafters, and shelves around the walls piled high with every conceivable form of vegetable, herb, spice, fruit and seed. Dishes of wood and clay were scattered around, along with utensils of every shape and size. The air was pungent with the smell of cooking meat, underlain by a hint of cinnamon. A bald, fat man was working over a steaming pot, whilst others were chopping, washing, stirring or mopping, talking amongst themselves as they did so. It was a warm, busy place, far from the lofty emptiness of the hall.

‘Colban!’ Ratagan cried as they entered. ‘I am here to make your life difficult.’

The fat man did not look up from his work. ‘I swear, Ratagan, if you had been born solely for such a purpose, you could be no better at it. No more beer, for the sake of decency, your health and my peace of mind.’

‘You misjudge me, Colban. I’ve brought the Knight from the Isle here to see where his breakfast came from, and to procure some more of the same for myself.’

Colban did look up then, as did many of the others in the kitchen. ‘Well, why didn’t you say so, you great bear?’ He came forward, cleaning his hands on a cloth. ‘Greep!’ he barked. ‘Keep an eye on that broth, will you?’ An aproned figure ran to take over where Colban had left off.

‘The Knight is a prince in his own land, a great leader of men,’ Ratagan went on, nudging Riven. ‘He has come to examine the layout of your kitchen, as the cook in his own keep is sadly lacking in inspiration.’

Colban wiped his brow. ‘We are in a bit of a mess at the moment, you must realise; these raids are so unsettling, and the whole thing has interrupted supplies. What fresh vegetables we have at the moment are grown within the Circle, and the recent snows have ruined much of them. We are not smoking as much beef as we have in past years, for the herdsmen are all but driven from the higher pastures, you know.’

Ratagan was scooping himself a bowl of broth, nodding wisely. Riven was dumb, but fortunately Colban seemed eager to talk about his responsibilities. He took Riven’s arm and propelled him through the kitchen.

‘We have our plots of barley and wheat within the Circle, of course, though they will not be harvested this autumn, what with the weather. But we have a good store set by, and bake our bread here to supply the whole Rorim. Sometimes we even have enough left over to sell to the herders of the hills.’ He gestured to a long row of heavy glass jars. ‘Enough spices here to last a year, which is just as well; the caravan route from Nalbeni is just about closed. Our herbs, we grow ourselves; the garden is one of my successes, even if it is I who say it. Goats and the milch cows are in the west of the Circle, and we trade game for the occasional cheese with the hunters. All in all, we try to be self-supporting.’ His face darkened. ‘Which is as well, in times like these.’

Madra walked into the kitchen with a stack of wooden plates. Riven waved at her, but she did not see him.

‘The storerooms are built on to the back of the kitchens, and there is living space there also for the maids and the servers. We all pull on the one rope here.’ He smiled broadly at Riven. ‘What exactly is your cook’s problem, if you don’t mind me asking, Lord? I could perhaps advise you on that score.’

Ratagan was grinning, but Riven ignored him. ‘Oh, that’s all right. I have seen enough here to set him straight. I’ll show him the error of his ways.’

The fat man beamed. ‘You are too kind, my lord. We do only our humble best here. I shall inform Gwion of your approval.’

‘You do that, Colban; he’ll appreciate it, I’m sure,’ Ratagan interrupted. ‘But for now, the Knight and I must leave you. Matters of import call.’

They left the kitchen with Colban’s invitation to visit him at any time ringing in their ears. Ratagan chuckled.

‘You have made a friend there at any rate, Lord Riven.’

‘You’ll get me into trouble with all this “Lord” and “Knight” business, you know.’

Ratagan shrugged. ‘Who in Minginish is to say what you really are, Michael Riven? If what Bicker and Murtach believe is true, then you are more important to this land than any lord who ever walked.’

‘And what do you believe?’

The big man looked at him gravely. ‘I believe in a full belly, a warm hearth and a willing horse. Those, and the edge of my axe. I choose not to concern myself with the whys and wherefores of this life, for there are always plenty of others willing to do so.’ Then he smiled once more. ‘But see here: I have brought a counsellor out of the kitchen with me.’ He pulled aside the neck of his tunic to reveal the dark, slim neck of a wine bottle. ‘So let us find a quiet spot and consult with him.’

They found a window seat that looked south to the hills of Ralarth. In front of them the land within the Circle was barred by the silver of the brimming stream and patched with distant flocks of sheep and herds of cattle. There were the wrecked expanses of flattened crops also, and men at work in the quietly falling rain.

‘They’re building something there, inside the Circle.’ Riven pointed. He could see men rearing thick timbers and moving heavy stones in the middle distance.

‘Ah,’ Ratagan rumbled, swigging wine from the bottle. ‘Those are the new longhouses for the herders who have fled the hills. The Warbutt is building them homes within the Circle, and in turn, Luib trains them to fight in its defence. A few of them may even become Hearthwares.’

‘They do training with weapons?’

‘Yes, staves and spears, mostly. Few have swords, though there are some bowmen.’

‘I’d like to do that. Could I join in?’

Ratagan stared at him. ‘I see no reason why not. But for what reason?’

Riven shrugged. ‘I was a soldier once, in my own world. I’d like to know something about soldiering in this one. Besides, it may come in useful one day.’

‘Very well,’ Ratagan said. ‘I will have a word with Luib as soon as he gets back. If you show promise, we can always get one of the Myrcans to teach you along with the other would-be Hearthwares. Do you have a weapon?’

‘I have a knife, and I can cut myself a staff if I have to.’

‘Then it is settled. I would teach you myself, but this forbids.’ He held up his bound leg. ‘Besides, I was never one of Luib’s most apt pupils.’

‘What is the rest of Minginish like?’ Riven asked.

‘Not all like this. To the north are the cities of Minginish: Idrig-ill, Talisker and Avernish. Up there, the land is flatter, and it is possible to see that the country is truly but one great valley. Ralarth is but a dip in its slope. The Great River wanders about the land, and the soil is rich—the people are richer, too. Farther north, beyond Avernish, the land of Minginish ends in the steep hills that the northerners call Ullinish. Farther north still are the mountains proper: the Greshorns, and in their midst is the Red Mountain which we call the Staer, the Dwarves called Arat Gor and you call Sgurr Dearg.’

‘Tell me of the cities. How big are they?’

Ratagan made a face. ‘Talisker is the biggest. The Rorim could fit into it thirty times without being noticed. It does a great trade in hides and stock. The people of Drinan mine iron and copper in the hills nearby, and barter for what they have not the time to grow themselves. They are great ones for the mining, the Drinan, and their swords are the best in the land. Drinan smiths often wander Minginish offering their services to the lords.

‘The eastern caravans pass into Talisker, so there is spice to be had there, and silk, and fine horses which can gallop for ever. They are from Nalbeni, the land of the Khans, away across the eastern desert. Only a few know the secret paths across the waterless places to Nalben itself, and the Guild of Merchants in Talisker guards its secrets jealously.’

Ratagan sighed. ‘It is a long way from our rainy Dale. And now the roads are made unsafe by the beasts that maraud the land. Only a strongly armed band would travel with impunity these days.’

The rain grew heavier, rattling off the window. Outside, those who had been building the new longhouses gave up and sought shelter, and the animals stood patiently, rumps to the wind.

Is she in the rain, or has she found her way into the bothy again? Which world is she in—this, or the other?

He shivered at the thought of that dark girl huddling in the downpour, and was filled with restlessness. It was important—she was important. His Jenny was the alpha and the omega to this, he felt; but he wished he knew why.

To hold her, just once more.

 

 

IN THE AFTERNOON, the hunters returned, walking their horses patiently through the mud to the Rorim. Leatherclad attendants ran into the rain to take their mounts, and Bicker led his people inside, dripping. There were no injuries, and the tired group went straight to their rooms to wash and change. Gwion fussed over them like a woman, but Guillamon, after a few brief words with Bicker, retired grim-faced.

Ratagan and Riven went to the hall, which was already bustling with maids and servers who set up trestles, lit the fire, and began carrying in plates of food and jugs of drink. They sat down, and Ratagan automatically poured himself some beer.

‘There’ll be much talk tonight,’ he forecast, ‘if I know that look on Guillamon’s face. But why, I wonder? None of our people is hurt, as far as I can see.’

Bicker came and took a seat beside them, leaning back with a sigh.

‘A long day, that was.’ He accepted a beer gratefully. ‘Greetings, my lord Knight of the Isle of Mists. How has your day been?’ he asked Riven with a smile and a raised eyebrow.

Ratagan laughed. ‘News travels fast from the kitchen. I thought it no bad idea to bestow a title on our guest, so blame it on me if the Warbutt disapproves.’

Bicker shrugged. ‘As you say, it is no bad thing.’ Then he looked at Ratagan, his face suddenly pained. ‘And you—you’ve been raiding the kitchen for wine again!’

Ratagan took another gulp of his beer, and wiped his mouth. ‘I have, and I am unrepentant.’

Murtach entered, followed by two Myrcans and half a dozen Hearthwares in leather jerkins. They took their seats and began to eat whilst a buzz of talk rose up and the servers brought in more food and refilled mugs.

‘Well,’ Ratagan said impatiently, ‘are you going to tell us what happened, or aren’t you?’

‘We’re eating,’ Murtach protested, his teeth around a chicken leg.

‘So talk with your mouth full.’

‘We found no grypesh,’ Bicker said. ‘Some cattle were killed, but their herders were unharmed. We left them just outside the Circle.’ He swallowed. ‘But we found Rime Giant tracks leading clear into the Dale: three sets of them. We followed them, but they took to rock and the rain washed away all signs. We quartered the land to the west of the Dale, but no tracks left Ralarth.’

‘So they are still here,’ said Riven.

‘Yes. Tonight, most of the Hearthwares will be out patrolling the Dale. We have been telling people to stay indoors. At least with weather like this, they are likely to do as they are told.’

Ratagan whistled softly. ‘No wonder Guillamon looked so grim. They could wreak havoc with the flocks tonight.’

‘Or every night,’ said Murtach quietly. ‘Until they are forced to leave.’

‘Who argues with Giants?’ Bicker asked, biting into an apple.

‘Let me go out with the Hearthwares tonight,’ Riven said on impulse. ‘You can’t forget that I thought up the Rime Giants. They are one of the monsters of my story.’

‘This is not a story,’ Murtach told him. ‘Those things out there could kill you.’

Bicker held up his hand. ‘Enough. But Murtach has a point. You cannot yet handle our weapons, Sir Knight, and we cannot afford to have you battered to bits by a Giant—not until we have puzzled out what you can do here. I am sorry.’

Riven was silent. It had only been a sudden whim, and he was secretly glad that Bicker had refused it. But if the Rime Giants of Minginish were the same as those in his story, they would have been worth seeing.

‘And I suppose that I must stay behind also,’ said Ratagan in a disgruntled tone. Bicker nodded, mouth full, and the big man swore.

Guillamon and Udairn came into the hall and joined them. Guillamon set one slender hand on Bicker’s shoulder.

‘We have settled it, then. You have twenty Hearthwares and four Myrcans. Dunan will command those left behind. Unish will stay, since his arm is no good to him, and Isay.’

‘And I have talked to the men in training,’ Udairn said in his deep voice, hands tucked into his sash. ‘Twenty of the most promising will accompany you. We’ll split up into groups: one Myrcan, five Hearthwares and five of the trainees to each group.’

‘That’s only four groups,’ said Murtach. ‘Will it be enough?’

‘It will have to be,’ Guillamon said to his son. ‘If the groups are any smaller and they run into their prey, then they will be no match for them. As it is, eleven men against three Rime Giants are tough odds. The groups must not stray too far apart in case one of them finds itself in real difficulty.’

Bicker wiped his mouth, and looked at Udairn. ‘Who are the group captains?’

‘You, Murtach, myself and Ord.’

‘Excellent. I think it is a good plan. I think it will succeed.’

Guillamon smiled wryly. ‘Three Rime Giants should be easy to track down, even in the dark. They are not the smallest creatures in the world.’

‘Nor are they the most quick-witted,’ Bicker added. ‘But they have an animal’s cunning, and their strength is immense. I’m wondering whether we will be able to subdue them if and when we find them.’ He frowned. ‘We should go afoot, for horses are terrified of them. The Myrcans prefer to fight that way, at any rate.’

‘Agreed,’ said Udairn. ‘We leave in three hours, when it’s almost fully dark. I’ll go and finalise things with the Warbutt.’

Ratagan shook his head. ‘What a party to miss,’ he growled.

 

 

THE RAIN CONTINUED into the night. The patrols had left and Riven was at the window of his room, staring out into the darkness and the light-glimmers of the Dale. He was glad to be alone for a while.

Sitting on the bed, he set to shaping the long branch of dark wood that Gwion had given him to make into a staff. He had his knife in his room now. It was too large for the work, but he scraped on patiently, content to work with his hands and leave his thoughts behind.

He thought he heard muffled shouts in the night, and stopped for a moment to listen. Nothing.

The wind. He whistled quietly as the knife blade winked in the light of the candles. He was thinking of the quiet nights at the bothy, with the sound of the wind as it was now, and the sea behind it; Jenny reading at the fire. And the sudden tears blinded him, so for a second the knife blade was a bright blur. He shook his head angrily.

The window exploded inwards, glass and wood shattering into the room. He sprang away from it instinctively, falling to the floor. The candles guttered in the wind and rain that poured in. A huge arm, as long as he was high and covered in coarse grey fur, reached in through the smashed window, groping inside the room. Foot-long fingers scrabbled at the floor, and there was a bellow of rage. Riven could see two ice-blue eyes glowing just beyond the window sill, a glimpse of a great shaggy head and enormously powerful shoulders. He was paralysed for a moment, and in that moment the blue fires outside flared with recognition and the arm reached farther inside, one shoulder dislodging masonry as it followed. The hand swung, and smashed him clear across the wrecked room.

His door burst open and a Myrcan rushed in, followed by two unarmoured Hearthwares. The ironbound stave cracked down on the giant hand and the monster roared with pain, striving to reach its attackers. The outside wall burst inwards, and then it was half inside, in a shower of stones and shattered wood panelling. One arm lunged out and crushed a Hearthware against the wall with a cracking sound. His eyes whitened and blood burst from his mouth. The other arm reached for Riven, but he scrambled out of its way. The Myrcan stood his ground and fended off the swings of the mighty arms with terrible blows of his stave. Blood appeared on the grey fur, and the inner walls of the room shook and groaned as the giant tried to force its way farther inside to seize its foe.

Riven’s mouth was full of blood and bile and his head was ringing, but the other Hearthware hauled him to his feet.

‘Come on. Get out of here.’ He half-pushed, half-dragged Riven to the door, and threw him out into the corridor beyond. Then he drew his sword and stepped back into the fray with a loud cry.

Someone dragged Riven down the corridor; someone else jumped over him and ran on past. His ears were full of shouting and the sounds of wood and stone being demolished. He closed his eyes, for he was unable to see straight, and the blood in his mouth was making him feel sick. He spat it out, but the taste remained. He lay cushioned in someone’s lap, and that someone was pressing a cloth to where his head dribbled blood. A hand took his hand and pressed it to the cloth.

‘Hold that tight, there to your head.’ He did so automatically, and listened to the sounds of battle coming from his room.

So I finally got to see a Rime Giant.

Then he remembered the Hearthware and the sound of the bones breaking, and his stomach turned.

There was a final crash, a bellow that trailed off into distance, and then silence. After a moment the Myrcan swayed out of what was left of Riven’s room, his broken staff in one hand. There was a great wound in his temple and the blood was streaming down his face, but his eyes were clear.

‘Madra, does he live?’

A girl’s voice behind Riven’s head said: ‘Yes, Isay. He is hurt, but not badly.’

The Myrcan nodded unsmilingly. ‘Feorlig and Gobhan are dead. The beast fell, but I think it is still alive. Watch over him.’ Then he ran off, the blood spattering the walls in his passing.

Riven sat up, pushing away the hands that tried to help him. He staggered over to the door and looked in.

The entire outside wall of his room was gone, and all the furniture and panelling was in matchwood. One Hearthware lay by the wall with his chest flattened to a bloody mess of flesh and splintered bones; the other lay face down by the door with most of his arm and shoulder gone. Riven vomited.

Whilst the whine of the Quick Reaction Force’s Land Rovers filled up the street behind him.

Then he picked up a dead man’s sword and, ignoring Madra’s protests, ran off in the direction he had seen the Myrcan take. He made for the sounds of shouts and screams ahead, and finally found himself running through the hall and out to the square in front of the Manse.

There was an unequal battle being waged there. Four Hearthwares and two Myrcans, one with a slung arm, were fighting a pair of Rime Giants. Many other people were pouring into the square with pitchforks and staves and lit torches. The sounds of fighting came from beyond the yard also, mingling with the flicker of torchlight and distant shouts.

It seemed impossible that those fighting the Giants could still be alive. Their adversaries were ten or twelve feet tall, with arms that scraped the ground and small brutish faces lit by the icy flicker of their eyes. Long, dark, matted hair coursed from their skulls, lying over shoulders broader than the double doors of the Manse. They were slow-moving, but when their great fists crashed into the ground where a Hearthware had been a moment before, the cobbles split and flew into the air.

Riven quailed for a moment, but stronger in him than courage or fear was stubbornness. He caught a glimpse of Guillamon herding the people away from the yard, his blue eyes flashing with urgency; then he joined the fight, hefting the dead Hearthware’s sword.

He surprised the nearest Giant, and swung the blade with all his strength at the rear of the great knee. He felt the flesh and sinews give way and saw blood gush black in the torchlight. There was a deafening cry, and the monster fell to one knee, but spun round on him with incredible speed. He darted back, the breath sawing in his throat, and evaded the wild fist that snaked out towards him. Behind the beast, the injured Myrcan called Isay brought a staff down on its head with a sodden crunch. It went silent, and crashed over the cobbles with its skull crushed.

The other Giant gave vent to a long mournful wail, and swung its fists furiously at the defenders. A Hearthware was sent flying twenty feet across the yard and lay still.

There was another wail behind them, and a third Giant with bloody arms lumbered forward with a group of men in pursuit. Riven saw the huge axe-bearing silhouette of Ratagan clearly for an instant, then turned his attention to the fight. The two surviving Giants rushed the defenders, who backed away, the Myrcan staves slowing their attackers down. Then Ratagan and his group took them in the rear, and the axe flashed before it buried itself in a Giant. It squealed in rage and spun round, wrenching the axe out of Ratagan’s hand and knocking him to the ground. Riven ran forward and hacked at it, and it turned on him, snarling in frustration. He saw one great fist speed towards him like a train, then was struck, the breath forced out of his lungs, the sounds of his own bones breaking vivid in his ears. He landed heavily on the cobbles, and, barely conscious, saw the Giant loom over him.

Killed by a twelve-foot Neanderthal. Who’ll believe me?

But then he saw Ratagan perched impossibly on the creature’s shoulders, a long dagger in his hand. His arm went up in the air, and then the dagger was buried to the hilt in one of the Giant’s eyes, putting out its light. It fell like a hacked tree with the big man still clinging to it, crashing to the ground in front of a prostrate Riven.

The other Giant turned to flee, and the Hearthwares’ swords opened up its back but could not stop it. It blundered into buildings with loud splinterings, hurling aside those in its way, and disappeared, with the Myrcans and the surviving Hearthwares in pursuit. For a long moment the square was silent, the cobbles shining in the rain.

One Rime Giant corpse heaved up, and Ratagan pulled himself out from under it, swearing. He sat on the ground and looked about himself groggily.

‘Ratagan,’ Riven croaked, the effort of making the word an agony. The big man scrambled to his feet and stumbled over. His nose was broken, and his face was dark with blood, but he managed a hoarse laugh.

‘Well met, Michael Riven. I cannot tell you how glad I am that you have breath in you.’ His hands felt Riven over gently. ‘I think the cage of your ribs must be broken. And your collarbone. Your foe must have had something against you.’

Riven smiled weakly. ‘Who argues with Giants?’

Ratagan laughed again, and then grimaced, touching his mangled nose. ‘I have a hideous idea I will not be my pretty self after this.’

The doors of the Manse opened and Guillamon came out, closely followed by Gwion and other members of the household. When he saw the bodies littering the square his eyes burned.

‘Make litters. Have them taken inside,’ Guillamon barked. ‘Some of the women heat water and rip bandages.’ People scurried about at his bidding, tearing their eyes away from the carnage. He came over to Ratagan and Riven.

‘Are you much hurt?’

‘I am not, but the Teller here will be dancing no jigs for a while.’ Then Ratagan leaned close. ‘We are brothers now, you and I,’ he said to Riven. ‘I saved your life, and you saved mine.’

The two Myrcans and three Hearthwares trooped wearily into the square with bloody weapons in their hands. Guillamon straightened.

‘Isay, have all the beasts been killed?’

‘We caught the last one just outside the ramparts,’ Isay said through his mask of blood. ‘It lives no more. Three Hearthwares and six others are dead. The wall is breached in three places and there is some damage to the Manse itself. Of the Circle, I cannot yet speak; it will have to wait until the morning.’

The litters arrived, and the dead Hearthware was borne away on one. Riven was lifted gently on to another. Already the Giant corpses were being hauled off, and the blood was being washed from the square.

‘Isay,’ Guillamon said, as Riven was carried into the Manse, ‘take a horse and find the patrols. Tell them to come in. Tell them what has happened here.’

Isay paused long enough for someone to bind up his head, and then ran off. Riven closed his eyes. It had been a long night.

 

 

BY MORNING, THE patrols were in, and Riven was in a new room with an early sun flooding through the windows, his collarbone set and bound, his ribs doing their best to stop him breathing. It brought back memories of Beechfield in the early days, except for the view of blue hills out of the window.

Bicker, Ratagan and Guillamon were in the room also. Ratagan’s face was one massive bruise, and his exertions of the night had burst the wound in his leg, which was rebound and propped up on a stool in front of him.

Bicker was standing with his face towards the window.

‘They must have been lurking outside the Circle, waiting for us to go past before they moved. And then they went clear through the outer wall so the guards at the gates would not be alerted.’ He shook his head. ‘Are Rime Giants developing brains?’

Guillamon was inspecting the bandages that encircled Riven’s shoulders in a figure of eight. ‘They knew what they were doing.’ Bicker turned around and stared at him.

‘They knew where the Knight of the Isle slept, and one of their number scaled the Manse to try and get there. He demolished a wall in his trying.’

‘More riddles,’ said Ratagan, his voice thickened by his broken nose.

‘Do you think that someone or something is directing these things?’ Riven asked. He found talking painful.

The older man was thoughtful. He stood with his back to the fireplace. ‘I have a theory, Michael Riven. It is this: that you are Minginish. That would explain much—the weather, the attacks of the beasts. But I also think that you do not belong here. It is not right that you should be sitting inside the world of your own imagination.’ He smiled slightly. ‘For such we are, in your belief. I believe the attack of the Giants—and of the gogwolf—was no mere chance. You are drawing all the destructive power you have unleashed upon yourself, such is the guilt and despair which yet governs you. Now you are in this world, it may be that everything in it will focus upon you and mayhap give the rest of the land a respite. I don’t know. I am only speculating. Perhaps if Minginish kills you, it will live on. Or perhaps it will go down with you, locked in snow and beset by wolves. Or with your death, perhaps we would all simply blink out of existence.’ He shrugged. ‘But that I doubt. This land has existed for longer than you have lived. No, I believe it is in your own heart that the key to this lies.’ He spread his hands to the fire behind him and swayed on the balls of his feet, his blue eyes shrouded.

Riven could not answer Guillamon’s claims. He lay and studied the dark wooden beams of the ceiling. Bicker seemed irritated, and also very tired. He held himself accountable for the deaths of the night before, they knew.

‘Go on, Guillamon,’ he said wearily. ‘There is more. I know by the look in your eyes.’

‘I don’t mean to try you, Bicker. We each have our cares at the moment. I am Warden of Ralarth, remember.’ He stared at Bicker until the younger man sat down with a cracked laugh. ‘On with it, then, you old goat; give us the benefit of your wisdom.’

Guillamon pursed his lips for a moment. ‘There is one thing I have not thought of: Riven’s dead wife, whom he—and you, Bicker—say is alive again, probably here in Minginish at this moment. How did this happen? How does someone return from the dead? In my own mind, I believe that no one does. Death is final. But if the characters of Riven’s books—such as we are—are walking a world somewhere, why should his wife not, who has probably figured in his dreams and imaginations more than any of us?’

‘That’s crazy,’ Riven broke in. ‘I don’t believe I’ve created anything. You’re older than my books. Maybe I’ve gone through some sort of door, yes, and maybe somehow my imagination has found a way to tap into this place, but I’m not some god who sits and creates people and places.’

‘Nevertheless, your wife—or a facsimile of her—is alive at this very moment,’ Guillamon said gently. ‘It may be that on her death, her spirit—or your imagination; it could be either—escaped through the door that had been torn open into Minginish. And thus she finds herself here, a creature of two worlds, who can move from one to the other without difficulty, unlike us, who can only move one way through a door.’

‘She didn’t recognise me,’ Riven grated. ‘I saw her at the bothy, and she didn’t know me.’

‘She cannot be your wife,’ Guillamon said. ‘Not truly. As I have said, death is final. But part of her is the woman you knew—perhaps. Perhaps.’

‘Talk bites its own tail after a while,’ Ratagan rumbled, and Guillamon smiled.

‘You have the truth of it, there. But some talk is necessary. I am only sorry that it must by necessity be on painful subjects.’ And here he bowed to Riven. ‘There will be yet more talk, and discussions, and debate, and all of it will be on matters you had thought to hold private. For this I make my apologies in advance, Michael Riven. If there were any other way we would try it—but you are the clue to our ruin and our survival, and thus must become the property of us all. In the meantime, this Rorim is your home.’

Riven nodded. Somehow these people always managed to humble him. There was silence in the room for a few moments. Dust danced in the sun from the windows. They could hear cattle lowing in the Dale.

‘If what you have said this morning is true, then we had best be on our guard, Guillamon,’ Bicker said quietly. ‘Minginish will keep on trying to kill the Teller here.’

‘And the Rorim is between them,’ Ratagan added ominously, scratching his beard. ‘I foresee a busy time ahead.’ Then he grinned. ‘For those of us who are not invalids, that is.’

‘Maybe you should send me back home, to my own world,’ Riven suggested.

Bicker shook his head. ‘We will keep you alive, never fear, but we will have to decide what it is we must do about this. Besides, you will not be fit to travel for several weeks.’

Guillamon came away from the fireplace, suddenly brisk. ‘We have indeed a busy few days in front of us,’ he said. ‘There is the rebuilding and the burying. We cannot make good our losses until Luib and Druim are satisfied with their trainees.’ He looked at Bicker. ‘I am putting Unish on to the training, to try and speed things up. And’—he glanced at Riven—‘our guest here will now be guarded by a Myrcan at all times. Isay has said he will do it. I think he was impressed by your actions in the square last night, Knight of the Isle; though he will never say so, being a Myrcan. I must go. There are duties waiting me.’ And he left quietly.

‘I think I’ll get drunk,’ said Ratagan. He sounded subdued.

‘I think you won’t,’ Bicker retorted. ‘Even a laggard like you can be put to use on this morning.’ He smiled to take the sting out of the comment. ‘Murtach has a Myrcan and six Hearthwares out with him, patrolling the Dale. When he gets back, I want you to get his news, and then pick six others to send out immediately after. Ord can take them.’ He went to Ratagan and examined his face. ‘Can you manage to do that, old friend? It must have been quite a battle.’

‘I have fought easier foes,’ Ratagan admitted. ‘And Riven proved himself to be a soldier of our world as well as of his own. He has a sword, now; I think he should be allowed to keep it.’

Bicker moved to where Riven lay silent on the bed. ‘Well, Knight of the Isle: would you bear a Drinan-forged sword and lift it in defence of this land that is trying to kill you?’

‘There are worse causes,’ said Riven, and he grasped Bicker’s proffered hand.

What the hell.