Here in Cold Hell Page 2

  Nameless stopped. All of them staggered to a halt.

  Their guards did not prevent this, or try to force them on. They brought their spider-horses to a standstill, dismounted, and stood clasping their mailed fists to their hearts, shouting out a single word, which must be the true name of the Place. ‘Shabatu! Shabatu!’

  ‘Face of God, what is it?’ whispered Kuul.

  Choy, on Nameless’s other side, said, ‘A great cliff, carved—’

  ‘A city,’ said Nameless. ‘It’s a city.’

  Up it swarmed, far into the crystallized grey sky, vanishing there in a tapering perspective, while the blue sun perched on the highest limits, and lit it in streaming blue rays. It was pale, walled – walls within walls – up and up, on and on. One vast gateway broke the smooth frontage, and had doors of iron, fast shut. Above the gate was carved an open bestial mouth, fringed by black iron teeth. And from this mouth now erupted the beast-trumpet note heard on the far shore. Here it rang the air like a colossal bell.

  Men covered their ears, moaned.

  ‘Don’t bother,’ said Nameless. ‘It can’t hurt you now.’

  Because, he thought, we are, as Kuul noted, dead.

  The city had convinced him, it seemed.

  But then anyway the guards were there, thrusting each man down on his knees.

  ‘Greet the Place. The city of Shabatu.’

  ‘I salute Shabatu,’ said Nameless, flat as a slate.

  The other men of his band followed his example, and in the same way.

  Nameless thought, I can’t fathom the meaning of its name …

  But everything now was names, known and unknown, to be invented or lost in amnesia. Also shapes, and new discouraging events. This was what a child must deal with, every second, once it had been born. But children lived and grew tough, throwing off their shackles.

  Nameless glanced around at his men. ‘Cheer yourselves up, my warriors,’ he said, ‘think how fortunate we are, to witness such sights denied to other men. Think of the tales we can tell when we go home.’

  I was a king. A king inspires and never shares his trouble, save with some close relative or friend. Did I have those, ever? It’s my duty to hold these few together. They’ve been given into my hand.

  He took a step towards the city called Shabatu, and immediately one of the blind-yet-seeing jatcha hounds came around him and was in his path, blocking it.

  It was not, then, permissible to go on.

  He looked at the dog, at the area where its eyes should be.

  ‘Good hound. Thanks for your kind instruction.’

  It was dog-size, but a very large dog, like the greatest and best bred of the Jafn hunting hounds, or the Urrowiy pack-dogs that carried whole travelling kitchens on their backs.

  As the jatcha sidled by, returning to its station with the guards, Nameless put his hand towards its muzzle. It paused, sniffing at him.

  ‘Know me,’ said Nameless. ‘I will be your friend.’ The hound still paused, and no one had called it away. ‘Your name,’ said Nameless, ‘shall be Star-Dog. A secret. Only I and you will know.’ He leaned down then to the dog’s ear and it growled, a strange gravelly menace. But Nameless only said, ‘Live well, brother.’

  The instant he straightened, one of the guards was there, clouting him across the back.

  Nameless found again he fell. No, he was not spelled invulnerable. At least, not for the moment.

  Yet he leapt upright again, facing the guard who had struck him.

  ‘You should tell us, sir,’ he said, ‘what’s disallowed. Then we won’t disobey and annoy you so.’

  ‘Everything is or may be disallowed,’ said the guard, the guards, for just as before they all spoke at once.

  Nameless looked round. His men watched him. He smiled at them. The blow had not hurt him.

  Over the last of the shingle shore, another note sounded on the long beach. The tall black gates of the city were undoing themselves. A procession was emerging.

  Some sort of priest was at the procession’s head, like the priests of one of those lesser cities Nameless had visited elsewhere. The Jafn, of course, did not have priests, nor the other nations of the north and east, except the Olchibe, whose leaders were also the priests of their vandal bands. They relied instead on the powers of their magicians. Again, he had remembered something.

  This priest figure wore deep blue, and lifted his arms to the sky. Behind him came others, all male, holding golden cups in which smouldered some type of incense. The aroma of it reached Nameless. It was like burning flowers.

  The procession halted about a hundred paces away.

  Only the foremost priest, thin as a stick, still advanced, walking over the stones and smiting them as he came with a long black staff.

  Nameless watched him carefully. The man’s face was pallid and had such small flattened nose, mouth, chin and brows it seemed unformed, or constructed by some careless god. The others were too distant to be certain if they were the same.

  The priest’s long hair resembled crawls of tallow. Like the snakes of the guards, this hair too appeared to be made of some other substance.

  Now the priest was in front of them.

  ‘Shabatu welcomes you.’ A reedy voice, like a weak wind shivering through a hole in a narrow cave. ‘Here is what you have earned and deserved. Shabatu is a Place of War. Behold the Battle Gates of Shabatu. Go now, join your Brotherhood, your Horde, your Gullahammer, your Army, your Legion, your Cesh, your Valmat, your Jihax, your Vandal-Sack …’ The list went on. New names, new words, all of which meant war, meant the pride and prowess and honour and glory of war, and men banded together to make it.

  I am at the Battle Gates. Where I belong.

  Bitterness flooded Nameless. He embraced it. He was remembering, and must remember. But for now – for now they were driven aside, and along under the endless soaring walls of the city called Shabatu, Place of War, to join their regiment, the king and his twenty-three men.

  A war camp. It lay in the lee of the walls, northwards, Nameless had concluded from the angle of the sun that now was setting.

  Rank on rank of tents and bivouacs were spread out, some neatly positioned, and many haphazard and untidy. Fires burned between, flames anaemic in the light, but gaining in redness as the sun clotted in cloud and went down.

  The sky to the west – it must be the west – was richly blue, a peacock colour. To the east, where night was starting to stir, a few campfire stars woke above, very big but not so brilliant. Maybe the unremitting cold had robbed them of their sparkle.

  Moons would rise. Or would they? Nameless had known three moons, and nights of triple moonrise when dark was vivid as day. That was when he had been a king and ruled many thousands of men.

  He stood up on the slope in the stone-littered landscape, looking mostly away to the north, or the west. In those two quarters, other lights than stars were becoming dimly visible. Presumably they blazed in the war camp of Shabatu’s enemies.

  All the men who had come with him from the sea, the men called by numbers, were accustomed to fighting. They had dropped easily into a pre-battle stance, part tension, part bravado, and part resignation. They had no tent, but made a fire down the slope, using flints from the beach, and sat there now, below.

  There was food. Thin, small-featured persons, like the priests but dressed in secular style, brought round baskets of bread and citrus fruits, while others turned spits over several larger fires, roasting carcasses that seemed to be those of deer or some bovine animals. There was liquor too, wine and beer, even raw spirits. You could discover what you wanted, what you liked. One man – Seventeen – had already asked a passing snake-haired guard if tonight women would be available. The guard failed to answer. Nor did any women manifest. ‘We haven’t earned them yet,’ said Eighteen. ‘It’ll be tomorrow, after we fight.’ The guards must have said this at some point – or else other men already in the camp had said it. It seemed there had been for the camp a wait, an inte
rval, until enough men were present to provide an equal force to that of the enemy. A couple of the men already in the camp had complained that Nameless’s band had kept them hanging about for a year. ‘A year? Can it be?’ ‘No. He’s cracked.’

  The camp was very great, as befitted an army under such gigantic walls as Shabatu’s. And also, going on the fires, the enemy camp seemed enormous. Had all these warriors had to linger on the advent of twenty-four more men?

  Kuul had come up the slope. He brought Nameless a chunk of roast meat that smelled enough like beef, and a jug of black Jafn-like wine.

  They ate and drank for a time in silence. Then Kuul said, ‘You are a Borjiy. I’ve recalled. You were my Chaiord. I think that was it.’

  ‘What garth are you from?’ asked Nameless, finding that the right words came now, or seemed to.

  ‘Irhon.’

  ‘Yes, Irhon. I know you – but still I can’t remember—’

  ‘My name. Nor I. Nor can I yours. Only my people. Oh, and I think I can recollect my wife, but her name’s gone too. I can only see her hair and breasts and her sweet lower mouth.’

  ‘Not too bad a bargain, then.’

  They laughed.

  All through the camp men were laughing, play-sparring, wrestling, shooting at marks, telling tales, burnishing and honing weapons.

  Familiar, this, as his own skin.

  And across the landscape, in the second camp, no doubt it was just the same.

  ‘They don’t know or won’t say who we’re to fight,’ said Kuul, very low. ‘Do you reckon it’s human? I’ve seen no seefs or glers or such here, but God only knows. This is a weird and wondrous spot. It’s like a dream – or a legend.’ Nameless said nothing. Kuul swigged wine. He said, ‘We are dead. I believe so.’

  ‘Then,’ said Nameless, ‘if dead, death means life, for we live.’

  ‘You think this is the Other Place? The land beyond the world? I thought that would be merry. And not so biting cold.’

  ‘I think I live, and you live. I can smell you, Kuul. Even in the biting cold.’

  Kuul grinned.

  The sun was all down. The sky was growing luminously black, and more huge stars scattered out, thick as the shards on the beach, but even now not bright. As yet there was no sign of any moon.

  ‘Look there,’ said Kuul.

  Nameless gazed behind him.

  Shabatu, the War City, was slowly lighting up. It was not that torches, lamps or windows appeared. The walls themselves began to gleam and glow with a pale golden translucence. Around their fire, all twenty-two of Nameless’s other men had got up and were staring, impressed, at this spectacle. But everyone else either took no notice, or mocked the newcomers’ amazement.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ murmured Kuul, ‘I mean to fight my best, and take the damned leer off their faces. We are Jafn.’

  But the city shone like radiant golden ice. Who would need a moon, with such a city? Perhaps none, for no moon rose all through the long, cold night.

  During the night, too, much of the camp slept. The slumber involved most of the men from Nameless’s group. The Jafn Kuul naturally spurned sleep as most nights Jafn did, and Nameless felt no need of it. But eventually the one called Choy came up the slope with another man, Lifli – Five – who seemed to be a Kelp of the north seas. His nation was known for going seven days and nights awake at a stretch. The Kelp’s face was sad and bewildered, but he had painted it with stripes for war. Nameless did not know him, nor did the Kelp know Nameless, but they sat down together on the slope and drank, looking at the city, or away to the east for sun-up. Choy too kept awake with the others. He said he had never slept very well.

  If we live, how do we stand this extreme of cold? If we are dead, why do we need sleep or to stay insomniac?

  ‘We are far from home,’ lilted Kuul, who had a fine light singing voice. After the song he told them the Jafn story of the hero Star Black, made by God from snow to aid the garth of the Kree. ‘When he came alive at God’s breath, he also became blacker than night.’ Later, Choy said that in his country there were black men, though not perhaps as black as that. They were all remembering – their women, their sons, their histories and fights, their myths and peoples. Only Nameless, despite his earlier optimism, felt the sightlessness still enfold acres of his memory in dense ice. He recalled no kindred, no lover, no friend. He recalled no Jafn stories, and certainly not his own. He waited for the dawn.

  TWO

  In the morning the sun that rose was transparent as a glass. Its edges only had any blue, and from it poured beams of frigid light.

  Nameless saw how the sky was like a piece of palest grey marble, veined and polished, probably tactile, if you could reach.

  After all, Choy had lapsed asleep.

  Lifli was praying to a small image made of shell, with four arms and the head of a wicked-looking bird.

  Kuul had gone but now came back with bread and beer. ‘They’re on the move.’

  ‘The enemy.’

  ‘Yes. See – you can make out the sun catching points on spears – or shields—’

  ‘That’s a big Cesh,’ said Choy. He meant, Nameless knew, a war force. It was one of the words the priest had used. Choy scowled and for a split second reminded Nameless of … someone.

  But already the hideous mouth-trumpet was yowling from the gates of Shabatu. All around men were prancing up. The cold, colourless air was also full of shouts and curses.

  The snake-heads were coming too, riding through the disrupted tent lanes on their spider-horses with the jatchas running to heel, lean heads down, seeing their way by scent.

  Nameless swung about among his men. He drank with them, passing round the cup, and reviewed the weapons they demonstrated. All were eager now, or to seem so. He congratulated them. Nameless this far felt no excitement such as he had known on the beach. He guessed that would change, once he could properly make out their foe.

  Despite the guards, no other here was mounted, and there were no chariots. What of the enemy?

  ‘Come on,’ said Nameless. ‘Let’s get down. We’ll take the front. There’s no organized plan – they don’t know what they’re at, but we do.’ He put his hand on their shoulders, and they looked at him in the way he remembered, and did not know why. He had bound them to him. Therefore he must take care of them.

  They advanced, loping, exchanging banter with those they passed, some of whom then trotted after, through the sprawled camp, out on to the plain of stones. No one now turned any of them back or tried to argue.

  ‘You stay with me,’ called Nameless. ‘I go ahead, then you. Hold together. Look out for each other, as I will.’

  ‘We’ll be first – more glory.’

  ‘Listen,’ said Nameless, ‘we’re immortal now. Not one of us can die.’ Their faces barely altered. Some smiled, nodding, others flinched, afraid of that where danger had not distressed them. But it was tepid and soon over. ‘This,’ said Nameless, ‘is to prove us to be what we know we are. Warriors. Stay together. This enemy – we’ll smash their fucking souls to pulp. Tonight, women and feasts. If not, we’ll take what we need and go on to where they appreciate us. Either this is the Afterlife, or we’re still in the world under some magic limitation. We have only to fight to be free.’

  They sent up a cry for him, even those who had only followed his twenty-three did that. But all across the amassing armies other such affiliations rose. There was no coherence, and no commander over all.

  At the front of the horde they pulled out, clear of the main force, and posted themselves on the stones. Again, there was no remonstrance from the guards. Several more of the other bands poured down to join them.

  Every man looked into the north and west, and a few minutes after, you could see the foe. At first they were only like a hurriedly moving mass, but presently it was apparent they were a mirror image, a second horde of men, jewelled with the blaze of metal, running towards them over the plain.

  Nameless bounded across the stone
s. Though aware of them, he no longer, despite his promise, properly saw any of his own men. His eyes were fixed irreparably it seemed on what came to meet him.

  Then something strange suggested itself about the advancing battalions.

  It did not slow him, yet his brain began to work in another way, and at the same time he heard the ones following him shouting out the news, deriding and exclaiming.

  ‘They don’t bear any weapons …’

  ‘No swords – not even knives …’

  ‘Shields – that’s all – see, one shield slung on each arm …’

  ‘What will they do, flap them together and clap us to death?’

  They still spoke of death, but Nameless noted their fierce laughter. He saw something else. The enemy were slowing down, stopping. They were motionless, and still a quarter-mile away.

  That was when he experienced the unknown power, which rushed into him, from the atmosphere or the ground. It was like the strongest wine, although wine had never much affected him, he thought – had he ever been drunk? Now he was. Still running forward, he seemed suddenly to have achieved an additional, incredible speed, beyond anything possible to him in the world, and in his skull electric fires ignited, so his vision began to tinge everything with crimson …

  At his back now he could sense that the others had been imbued with a similar genius. Growls and brayings erupted from them, like the outcry of contesting stags or elephants that charged.

  Nameless, even running, stretched himself. He believed he felt himself grow much larger – every sinew, muscle, bone – even sexually he rose up, angry, not to enjoy, the phallus only another weapon … His body was fluid, invincible – Borjiy berserker – the spell he had thought had been made for him there about him once more. Opening his jaws, he too roared.