Talus and the Frozen King Read online

  He tried to talk more to Tia about it, but she'd lost interest in his questions. All she cared about now was reclaiming her lost kingdom. Her patience gone, she told Talus to choose: it was either her, or the long journey north.

  Talus chose north.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Tharn led the way to the burial cairn, which lay at the northern extremity of the village. Here, the maze of passages converged on a single, winding way. This path, though still sunk into the ground, had no roof. The red light had faded from the sky, leaving it bright and laced with the kind of fish-scale clouds that told Talus a storm was coming.

  Bran—who'd started out sullen—now looked nervous. His hands were trembling; his face was a mask. Talus knew exactly what was making his companion uncomfortable.

  They were approaching the land of the dead.

  The path widened. Ahead rose a domed structure skinned with turf: a hill made by men. The island's burial cairn. Though it resembled many cairns Talus had seen before, it possessed a remarkable symmetry of line. Whoever had built it had known his craft.

  Tharn brought the procession to a halt. The cairn entrance gaped, a bleak, black square standing no higher than Talus's shoulder. It looked grim and foreboding.

  The shaking in Bran's hands had descended to his legs. Talus gripped his companion's arm.

  'There is no need to be afraid.'

  'Tell it to my knees.'

  Tharn called forward his brother with the lanky arms and legs. With his long limbs unfolded, the man was astonishingly tall. A whispered conversation ensued.

  Talus studied the cairn's mouth. The king lay inside, awaiting his final passage to the afterdream. This place—like all such places—was a threshold, packed with potential. What answers must it hold, to what countless questions?

  'Come,' said Tharn. 'Let us enter.'

  Talus leaned close to Bran. 'It is an interesting family, do you not think?'

  Bran's expression remained glum. 'You mean you've only just realised they're brothers?

  Talus—you're usually much quicker than that.' One by one they entered the cairn. Talus ducked quickly under the stone lintel but Bran pulled up short. Fethan jabbed him with the blunt end of a flint axe similar to Bran's own. Talus was about to intervene when the tall brother slipped between the two men.

  'Be easy, Fethan.'

  'Out of my way, Cabarrath.'

  Cabarrath placed his hand on his sibling's heaving shoulder. 'Let us not take more death over the border.'

  'This one's trouble.' Fethan's eyes—as dark as his tangled hair—flicked restlessly from side to side. 'Let me have my fun.'

  'No, brother.' Cabarrath was older than Fethan, Talus had decided—almost certainly the next oldest after Tharn.

  Cabarrath turned his touch into a brother's embrace, tightening his arm around Fethan's neck and squeezing amiably. With his free hand, he rapped his younger brother on the top of his head. After this little ritual, he let go and gave Fethan a gentle shove into the cairn. Suddenly grinning, Fethan ducked past Talus and plunged into the darkness.

  'Forgive my brother,' Cabarrath said to Bran. He extended his hand. 'After you.'

  One after the other they crossed the invisible threshold into the land of the dead.

  It took Talus's eyes a while to adjust to the darkness. Gradually he began to make out shapes. He was standing at the end of a long underground chamber—almost a tunnel. Stone pillars rose at regular intervals, dividing the interior into a series of stalls. Talus knew without looking that each stall must contain the bones of many dead. He breathed in and tasted the herbs that hung here to sweeten the air. Beneath their aroma lurked the stench of decay.

  The tunnel grew narrower as it progressed, and the ceiling lower. This made the cairn seem much longer than it really was. At the far end stood a stone door, but it was so small that even a child would have struggled to use it. Not that any living person would have dreamed of trying to pass through that door: it was the final barrier between this world and the next.

  'I've got to get out of here,' muttered Bran.

  'There is nothing to fear,' said Talus. 'We have not left the world. This is not the afterdream.'

  'I haven't been near one of these places since Keyli died, said Bran.

  'It is just a place.'

  'That's just it. It isn't.'

  The king's body lay in an empty stall halfway along the cairn's throat-like interior. Tharn and his brothers crowded rounded it, their shoulders hunched to stop their heads banging on the low ceiling.

  The corpse lay on its back with its legs still frozen in their sitting posture—a pathetically comic posture. The temperature in here was not quite low enough to freeze water. As the body thawed and the immediate stiffness of death departed, its limbs would relax. By then, the smell in the cairn would be rich indeed.

  'I am Tharn,' said the king's eldest son. His words resounded. Echoes bounced back, rich and hollow. It sounded as if many people were speaking at once. Talus listened to the harmonies, intrigued. 'I come with my brothers: Cabarrath, Gantor, Fethan, Sigathon, Arak. We come to honour our king and father, who has left us to join his wife, our mother, in the afterdream. This is Hashath of Creyak, who is dead.'

  He took a step back. With a brisk wave, he beckoned Talus forward.

  Talus stroked his bald head with one bony hand. He'd come here with no real idea of what he would do. But that was his way. If you wanted to measure the currents of a river, what better strategy than to plunge headfirst into its waters?

  He turned to Fethan, raised his hand and snapped his fingers. Fethan's eyes darted naturally to the sound. With his other hand, Talus snatched up the bonespike Fethan was wearing on a thong around his neck—the same weapon with which Fethan had threatened Bran in the king's house.

  'Hey!' said Fethan as the thong's knot parted. His fingers became claws and he lunged for Talus. Cabarrath seized his younger brother round the middle, pinning his arms to his waist. Fethan thrashed but Cabarrath was strong. His height was against him though, and he kept cracking his head on the low ceiling. Every time he did so, he cursed.

  'Enough!' said Tharn. 'Fethan, be still! Bard, whatever it is you intend to do, be quick about it. I have no patience for this. And the afterdream is not a place to linger when the solstice is near.'

  Fethan grew sulky and his limbs stopped working. Cabarrath's face carried the ghost of a smile, but there was no humour behind it.

  For the second time that morning, Talus bent to the corpse of the frozen king of Creyak.

  What would he do? Still he had no idea.

  He ran his fingers over Hashath's skin. The flesh was hard like stone, and very cold. He explored the king's shoulder, then the frozen hands. He examined the tips of the king's fingers.

  Something was stuck under the nails. Interesting.

  He let his touch linger there.

  Finally, he raised Hashath's left arm to expose again the single tiny wound that—if his theory was correct—had killed the king. Moving the arm was difficult, but Talus was strong.

  Talus tilted his head. Bran sometimes told him he looked like a bird. He wondered if it was true.

  Then he took Fethan's bonespike and plunged it straight into the bloody hole in the king's side.

  With a roar, Tharn made a grab for Talus. But Bran was in the way. Bran set his feet and held him back, letting his shoulders accept the blows. Talus was glad his companion was built like a bear.

  Mishina stepped forward. For a moment, Talus thought the shaman would pull him away from the king. Instead, Mishina began to chant and bang his staff on the floor of the cairn. The combined sounds—the deep repetitive thudding of the staff, the thin rattle of the shells that hung from it, the guttural hum of Mishina's voice—echoed and re-echoed inside the enclosed space. Soon a pattern of sound had built up that turned Talus's insides to water.

  Fascinating. But Talus had other things to attend to.

  Using his forefinger, he pushed the bonespi
ke deeper into the wound. It sank a long way into Hashath's stiff flesh. So did Talus's finger: all the way up to the second knuckle. Talus supposed the onlookers would consider the process gruesome.

  Tharn was bellowing like an ox, but Bran wasn't moving.

  And Talus had already learned what he needed to know.

  With a hideous sucking sound, he withdrew his finger. Then he used the leather thong to draw out the buried bonespike. Once this was done, he handed the bonespike back to Fethan.

  Cabarrath relaxed his grip enough for his brother to snatch it up.

  'Why do you do this?' said Tharn. His chest was heaving. His breath steamed in a cloud that wafted over Bran's head and towards Talus's face.

  Talus turned to Mishina. 'Forgive me,' he said, 'but that noise makes it very difficult to concentrate.'

  The shaman stopped in mid-chant. His painted face contracted into a cataclysmic frown.

  Talus wondered what he looked like without the thick daubs of mud.

  To Talus's surprise, Mishina laughed.

  'You are clever,' he said. 'A very clever man.'

  'No,' said Talus. 'Merely observant.'

  'I do not understand,' said Tharn.

  'Then let him explain,' said Bran. Protecting Talus appeared to have robbed him of his fear.

  'It is clear,' Talus said, 'that young Fethan here has a temper.'

  'You dare ...!' said Fethan.

  'It's nothing we don't already know,' said Cabarrath.

  'A man with both a temper and a bonespike might be the killer we are looking for,' Talus elaborated.

  'You believe Fethan killed the king?' said Tharn. 'It cannot be true.'

  'The truth is what we are here to find. That is why I did what I did.'

  'Explain yourself,' said Mishina.

  'Gladly. The shape of a wound carries the shape of the weapon that made it. Any hunter knows this. That is why I brought Fethan's bonespike to the wound that killed the king—to see if the shapes match. They do not. The king's wound is much deeper than Fethan's bonespike is long. This means the murder weapon—which is certainly a bonespike or something similar—was much longer than the one Fethan carries round his neck.'

  Silence fell as the six brothers digested this. At last, one of them spoke: Arak, the pale youth with the green eyes. From the size of him, Talus determined he was the runt of the litter.

  'Seems to me this wandering bard's just telling us what the women of Creyak have known for years,' he said. His voice was high but strong.

  'What is that?' said Tharn.

  Arak grinned. 'That what Fethan really needs is a bigger weapon.'

  Laughter exploded round the group. Tharn did his best to keep his face straight, but in the end even he couldn't suppress a smile. Mishina was smiling too. He nodded at Talus, just once. A salute or a warning? Even Talus couldn't tell.

  The uproar continued until Tharn waved his hands.

  'This is not the place for laughter,' he said. 'Your ways are strange, Talus-of-the-tale. Is your curiosity satisfied?'

  'On this particular subject, yes.'

  'Well,' Tharn went on, 'mine is not. It is still strange to me that you chose to come among us on such an ill-omened day. Yet, if you did kill my father, why do you not try to run from me? You will stay, therefore. My brother Gantor will prepare a house for you and your companion. You will not leave until I am satisfied of your good will. None of these things I have said are requests.' Bran turned on him, his good hand straying to the haft of his axe.

  'We accept your hospitality,' said Talus quickly. 'And we understand your suspicion. You have my word that we will not leave this island until the mystery is solved.'

  'If you try,' said Tharn, 'I will stop you.'

  As they left the cairn, Talus knew he should feel satisfied. Seeking the truth was like telling a story: each small step took the seeker—or the teller—one stage nearer the conclusion. Eliminating Fethan was just such a step.

  Satisfying Tharn of their innocence was another.

  Yet ... bonespikes were common things. And what killer would carry his guilt in plain view on a thong around his neck? For all his cleverness, Talus knew that Fethan might still be guilty. Instead of triumph, then, he felt frustration. There was more to learn here in the cairn, he was sure of it.

  On his way to the exit, Talus feigned breathlessness. His mime was unconvincing, and earned him a dig in the ribs from the shaman, but it gained him just enough time for a final look around the interior. He lingered as long as he dared and finally, as his keen eyes scanned for the second time the corridor with the little stone door at the end, he spotted something. It was a tiny thing; not surprising he'd missed it until now.

  Added to what Talus had discovered under the dead king's fingernails, it might mean their trip here had been worthwhile after all.

  His patience gone, Mishina shoved Talus outside. Talus sprawled on the icy ground, cursing not just because he'd fallen, but because he'd left it too late to act on his discoveries.

  Bran helped him to his feet.

  'I'm glad I don't have to go back in there again,' he said.

  Talus brushed flakes of snow from his robe. 'It is interesting that you say that,' he replied.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Gantor was a great boulder of a man. He wore a long cloak of grey caribou hide, shaped and leather-stitched to fit his robust body. White stoat pelts ran around the collar and down the sleeves.

  It was a fine garment. Footwear in Creyak ran to simple fur-lined moccasins similar to Bran's own; for some inexplicable reason, Gantor went barefoot.

  This shoeless guide guided Bran and Talus back through the labyrinthine trenches. As he had in the island's defensive maze, Bran soon lost all sense of direction. Not that he was really paying attention. He was still recovering from being inside the cairn.

  Actually, the experience hadn't been as bad as he'd thought. The cairn in his home village of Arvon had been a poor, dead place, just a cold hole carved out of the earth. But the Creyak cairn was different. Rich, and somehow alive.

  Not that Bran had any intention of setting foot in it again. Nor of staying on Creyak for a single breath longer than he had to. He'd made up his mind. As soon as an opportunity presented itself, he was leaving.

  Gantor led them to a narrow dead end. Directly in front of them was one of Creyak's ubiquitous door-stones. Beside it was a gap in the trench wall; it looked out on a wide, shallow pit piled high with rough stones and lengths of whalebone. Thick ropes were wrapped around the stones, preventing the piles from collapsing under their own weight.

  Gantor was so broad he practically filled the passage behind them, cutting off any possibility of escape. Bran briefly considered taking the blunt end of his axe to the back of Gantor's head. With the big man insensible, he and Talus could make a run for it. But Talus showed no sign of wanting to run anywhere. Besides, Gantor's head—not to mention the rest of him—looked extremely hard.

  Gantor set his shoulder to the door-stone and heaved. It moved smoothly on a track of polished granite to reveal an interior resembling that of the king's house, only on a much smaller scale. It was clearly unoccupied: there were no beds in the alcoves and the stone shelves standing opposite the door were bare. The hearth was empty.

  'I build houses,' said Gantor. 'This one is new. You will stay here now. At sunset I will take you to eat with the people.'

  He adjusted his cloak and straightened the stoat-fur pouch at his waist. He frowned and rummaged inside, but came out empty-handed.

  'Lost something?' said Bran.

  Gantor turned his back and folded his arms. Bran loitered, trying to devise a way of carrying on the conversation. Perhaps if they could gain his trust ...

  Talus seized Bran's arm and dragged him through the open doorway.

  'The first thing we must do,' said the bard, 'is get a fire going.'

  'What you mean,' Bran replied, 'is you want me to get a fire going.'

  But Talus, like Gantor, had
already lost interest. And the thought of a fire was attractive: the act of building one was almost as warming as sitting in front of its flames. The sooner he started the sooner he'd shake off the cold.

  And keeping busy might stop him thinking about death.

  After a brief search, Bran found a stack of peat bricks and a bundle of dry willow bark in a pit in the floor, similar to the shellfish pond in the king's house. He hefted three of the bricks over to the hearth and propped them one against the other, leaving an open space beneath. Into this space he placed a handful of bark strips. Finally, he reached into the small pouch he carried under his bearskin, but not before throwing an uneasy glance back at the door.

  Gantor's body blocked most of the fragmented light filtering down through the passageway's woven roof. The big man stood motionless, showing no interest in anything they might be getting up to.

  From his pouch, Bran extracted a blunt block of grey flint and a shiny nodule of a heavy substance Talus called pyr. Kneeling, Bran held the chunk of pyr as close to the bark as he could and struck it with the flint. There was a faint chink. A spark leaped from the pyr to the nearest twig, which immediately started to smoulder. Bran puffed air gently over the bark. After a few breaths, a tongue of orange flame sprang into life. Soon all the bark was alight; shortly after that the peat bricks began to smoke, filling the house with swampy fumes that wound their way slowly towards the hole in the roof. There the whalebone rafters came together in an artful spiral that drew the smoke effortlessly into the sky.

  Gantor's head swivelled on his squat neck. He cast his baleful gaze over the flames, then turned away without comment.

  Bran stowed both flint and pyr back in his pouch. He'd journeyed far enough with Talus to know that every tribe had its own unique relationship with fire. Some conjured it with tools like the ones he carried. Others used bows to spin pointed sticks in wooden bowls. Some appointed guardians whose sole task it was to prevent the tribe's precious heartfire from ever dying out, so that every new fire they made was seeded from the flames of the one, true original.