The Way to Babylon by Paul Kearney

Author:Paul Kearney
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy
Publisher: Rebellion Publishing Ltd

THERE WAS NO light in the room save that of the fire. It was a large fire, the mantle above it the height of Riven’s shoulders, and it was as long as a bed. The flames licked up round thigh-thick logs and made the iron firedogs into burning icons. The fire filled the room with a tawny, saffron light and poured pools of impenetrable shadow in the far corners. Its light revealed a high-ceilinged room barred with black rafters, a flagged floor, and a long, heavy table set with unlit candles and piled with clothing and weapons of one sort or another. Before the fire, Ratagan and Riven sat on two high-backed wooden settles. The big man had a full flagon tilting in his fist and a tense cast to his face. They had both changed into dry clothes. Ratagan cocked his head to listen to the race of the wind outside that creaked the rafters.

A door opened, and Isay entered with a tray of platters of food. The woman followed him. There was a scrape as she brought a taper forth from a tin box and leaned towards the fire to light it. Ratagan took it from her wordlessly and held it in the flames till it had caught. She smiled at him, but he buried his nose in his beer.

The candles were lit and the room brightened, suddenly becoming bare as the high walls leapt into view.

‘What news?’ Ratagan asked the firedogs.

‘The beasts have drawn off,’ the woman said. She had a high voice, and there was something of a shake in it. ‘Murtach and the others are going round some of the outlying tenants now, to ensure they came to no harm.’

‘It was a fine fight,’ Isay said, and his eyes were shining in the candlelight.

Ratagan grunted. ‘Would have been finer still had the invalids but been allowed to stay in it. I’ll have words with Murtach when he returns.’

‘It was a running fight, at the last,’ Isay said. ‘Your leg—and the Teller’s weakness—would not have let you stay with it.’

‘The Myrcan speaks truly, Ratagan,’ the woman said. She set a hand on one huge shoulder. ‘Must you always be straining at the leash to bloody your blade?’ She was small, slim, with the pale-gold hair plaited behind her head, and steady blue eyes. Aelin. Ratagan’s wife.

‘It is one of the few things in which I excel,’ Ratagan said. ‘Another is drinking.’ He emptied his flagon, and after a minute’s hesitation she took it over to the table to refill it.

Riven shifted uneasily. Aelin had brought them inside and the battle had restarted, Murtach attacking the grypesh still outside. But now it was over, and Isay had rejoined them, along with a trio of wounded Hearthwares who were being tended in the hall below with their armour stripped off beside them. And Murtach was out with the others, harrying the defeated pack on foot and doing the rounds of the surrounding farms.

And since then, Ratagan had hardly

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