To Lie with Lions - Dorothy Dunnett [200]
‘I wanted a holiday. Robin believes it his duty to keep me advised about my duty. St Cuthbert’s sandals. I got paralysis of the feet.’
‘You made him your page,’ Kathi said.
‘I also prefer to take him back alive to his father,’ Nicholas said. ‘Was that thunder?’
‘No. You should have taken the trouble to bring him. Don’t you see how he has changed in five months?’
‘You mean he’s getting younger?’ Nicholas said. ‘That would be a distinct help. Look, I like him. He was disappointed. He’ll get over it.’
‘You sound,’ Kathi said, ‘as if you think you’re doing more for him than he’s doing for you. And you’re right in thinking he’s more mature than you are. Dr Andreas believes you’re fourteen.’
Nicholas turned and stared at her. Her knitted hat lidded her eyes. Behind him, Sersanders had jumped up and was standing impatiently. He had an idea that, also behind him, the Danziger had heard every word. Nicholas said, ‘I wager he said you were fourteen as well. Anyway, what’s wrong with being fourteen? Holy Jesus, that was thunder. Wasn’t it?’
‘That was thunder!’ said Sersanders, bending down.
‘Wrong!’ said Kathi. ‘As declared St-’
‘– as declared St Augustine’s congregation at Hippo when he misquoted the Bible. Your brother isn’t St Augustine. He’s right. Thunder.’
Unusually, she insisted. ‘It was the geysirs. Several at once. I felt them. My Sole cleaveth to the Pavement. Didn’t you?’
He felt them too, as she spoke: several extraordinary thumps underneath him, followed by a long shiver. Behind him, Paúel scrambled to his feet. He said, ‘If the wind would drop, we could hear.’ A moment later he said, ‘Someone is calling.’
‘The Destroying Angel,’ Nicholas said. ‘Thor the Thunderer, Father of Slaughter and Desolation. Troops of infernal spirits passing by, bearing the doomed. It’s calling Herra.’
It was the voice of Glímu-Sveinn. Talking, Nicholas had begun to heap their belongings together, his eyes meeting those of the other two men, who at once came to help him. The snow was thinning, and the voice repeated its call. Nicholas said, ‘Answer back, Kathi,’ and as she launched into her high, clear warble, added his own remarkably powerful voice.
This time they all felt the shaking, followed by a long rolling boom underground. At the same moment, there was a short, loud report from directly over their heads, followed at once by another.
‘Thundering applause. We are all correct,’ Nicholas said. ‘St Augustine and the Hippos: I’m going to start walking forward. If you see the poles, take them to walk with. If I fall in, I’ll bubble.’
‘I shall walk beside you,’ Benecke said. ‘Stretch your arm. Sersanders, walk behind touching your sister. If one falls into trouble, the other can help.’
The snow was thinning. The wind was so fierce at their backs that they had to brace themselves, deafened, but already they could see a short distance. Then the wind rose higher yet, flinging the soft powdered snow into the air while they felt their way forward, half blinded. They set their feet where the snow lay intact on the lava; sometimes ankle deep, sometimes up to the knee. Once they stepped across the black steaming line of a stream; once Paúel’s foot slipped on the snow-covered ice of a basin, and his cry warned them all. Behind the wind, they heard several times more the shouts of Glímu-Sveinn, guiding them over the patched and dangerous waste.
Behind them, as they crossed it, they also seemed to hear, raised in concert, all the myriad cavernous tongues of the springs; the glottal, gurgling voices of trolls, the subterranean chortle of demons. The wind rose until they could hear nothing else; and then ceased. The haze parted. The landscape lay, steaming, distinct, at their feet. And beyond the springs, beside the shifting shapes of their horses, sat the mounted figure of Glímu-Sveinn, his arm raised.
Nicholas shouted and, raising his own arm, increased his speed to a circumspect run. Benecke, now apart, ran