Journeyman in Gray

by Linus de Beville

  THROUGH ICE AND SNOW

  By the third day he was certain of their presence. He thought it likely they had dogged him since his meeting with Thane. The simple fact that he had not spotted his pursuers straight away was worrying. Anyone able to conceal themselves well enough to track him unnoticed for days was far more dangerous than the average brigand or cutthroat. He could not be certain of exactly who it was that matched his strides, but it was growing clearer buy the moment that they were more than simple highwaymen.

  The sky had cleared briefly as the Journeyman made his way north. Around him the fells that marched precariously up to the looming Drakkenhuuls gleamed bright and cold in the late winter sun. The saw-toothed peaks were outlined against the western horizon, their broken slopes encrusted with ice and snow, glittering as though gilded with silver. The clouds that had lingered for weeks had returned that same afternoon, muting the dazzling display. The Journeyman’s first inkling that he was pursued had come that evening as the scant light of the setting sun was swallowed by the encroaching cloud cover.

  He had spied a vague human shape hovering just inside the line of trees that capped a rise in the near distance. It had been no more than a shadow lurking beneath an evergreen, but it had been enough. By the next morning, with the sound of his footfalls echoing from the stony face of the surrounding bluffs, the Journeyman had seen another indeterminately human shadow. This figure had stood as still as the first, half concealed by a rocky over-hang. The Journeyman had made no sign that he had detected its presence, but as he passed below the cliff he felt himself observed.

  JOURNEYMAN IN GRAY

  Linus De Beville

  Cover by Vladimir Rikowski

  Interior illustration by Andre Stahlschmidt Copy-Editing by Jessica Bellows and Sabrina Smith

  Copyright © 2018 G. Owen Wears All rights reserved. ISBN-10: 1548057797 ISBN- 13: 978-1548057794

  For Jessica

  The first to champion this story and demand that there be more.

  CONTENTS

  Foreword i

  1 The Journeyman 1

  2 Ghul 8

  3 Soft Flesh and Hard Steel 16

  4 Move and Counter Move 24

  5 Pursuit 28

  6 Rout 32

  7 Flight 38

  8 Sanctuary 44

  9 Cinder 49

  10 Master Olis 55

  11 Stars 59

  12 The Smokery 62

  13 The Pyre 68

  14 Blood in the Snow 73

  15 Drysden 76

  16 Lyvys 80

  17 The Tower 86

  18 The Council 90 19 Truth Will Out 94

  20 The Cell, The Gallows 98

  21 Transport 111

  22 Advance 118

  23 Trees, The Gate 123

  24 The Tailor Shop 132

  25 The Waterfront 140

  26 Loathing 147

  27 The Valley 157

  28 Aftermath 163

  29 The Journeyman, Refrain 169

  30 Epilogue 172

  The House of Vytás 177

  1 Highwaymen 179

  2 The House of Vytás 191

  3 Below 202

  4 South 207 viii

  FOREWORD

  This is not the beginning of the story. Nor is it the end. It takes place right in the thick of it all. That is why I’ve chosen to publish it first. In the midst of a great clash of empires and sweeping political upheaval is, in my opinion, the best place to begin a story.

  For my first published outing into this world of warring barbarians, evil empires, and morally ambiguous anti-heroes, I wanted to tell a straight forward adventure story. I wanted it to be fast paced and easily accessible, filled with daring and no small amount of sex and violence. Fortunately for me, the Journeyman embodied these criteria perfectly.

  Unlike the other portions of this sweeping narrative, this story could easily be split up into sections and serialized in the fantasy and horror anthology ‘Exterus’. Because of this, I was able to reach a wider audience than just releasing an ongoing series and hoping that it caught on.

  Yet another reason, one that is more personal than practical, is that my earlier attempts at telling this epic were marred by amateurish mistakes. They suffered from many of the pitfalls novice writers stumble into while trying to construct a lengthy story, especially one that must convey a fair amount of emotion. Upon re-reading the first drafts of the stories that precede this one, I found that I had my work cut out for me. If ever I wanted so see them in print, that is. The Journeyman, however, fared much better.

  In the beginning, the Journeyman was only a figment, an enigmatic bit of imagery that would walk with me as I strolled around lakes, along rivers, or through the mountains. Sometimes he wore gray, sometimes he wore black. Sometimes he was a villain, a lone outlaw or cutthroat. Other times he was a stalwart hero on a lonely quest for justice. As I ambled through the seasons I would visualize this hooded figure striding along beside me, his features set, his gait steady. It wasn’t until one bitter February day that his story came to me in full.

  i LINUS DE BEVILLE Just off the highway south of the small town where I live there was a small field. In autumn this field was mowed and the stubble left until spring plowing. On that cold February day the clouds had come nearly to earth and small drifts of hard, crystalline snow lay packed against the stubble. As I drove past I looked out at that lovely bleakness and knew this was the setting that would open the Journeyman’s story. I could see him as clearly as if he were actually there, trudging through the snow, his cloak buckled tightly about him. In his pouch was a message that would affect the course of history and the fate of nations. All I needed to do was write this story down.

  When I arrived home, I did just that.

  As the story progressed our titular hero found himself coming to an inn, one populated by unsavory and dangerous characters. Here he meets an enticing young woman who is more than she appears to be. Thing unfolds from there.

  While writing these scenes I was keenly aware that I was retreading territory that readers of fantasy will no doubt recognize. Nonetheless, I was unable to keep them from playing out. They were far too much fun to write, far too much fun to go back and read through while working on the revision process. I make no apologies for the opening of my story. As a fan of fantasy in my own right there was something eminently satisfying about playing out the ‘Hero walks into a bar’ scenario.

  Much like the archetypical opening to this novel, the Journeyman himself is an archetypical character. During my formative years I spent my time reading about heroes that were quintessential in their tone and their traits. They were always composed and confident; cool heads and fast swords that could manage any situation. As long as I can remember I’ve wanted to write a story of my own starring a character just like those imagined by Edgar Rice Burroughs, Robert E. Howard, and John Norman. I did not, however, want my character to be a pastiche. There are a million John Carter tributes and a million more Conan clones. I wanted my character to fall within the same wheelhouse, though it was my hope that he

  ii JOURNEYMAN IN GRAY would be outside this pack of copy and paste heroes. I wanted him to be human; I wanted him to be flawed. As such, I’ve crafted a story that revolves around a man who is indeed deeply flawed. Though a cool head and a fast blade, he has his weaknesses. It is from these weaknesses that a great deal of the conflict in this story derives.

  Out here in the real world some folks excel at meeting the challenges life throws at them head on. Others…not so much. This novel revolves around a man who, when confronted with just such a set of challenges, makes some dubious choices. He will see the after-effects of these choices play out on a stage far grander than any he could have imagine
d.

  Also, to help shed some light on how the Journeyman came to be the Journeyman, I’ve added a short story to the end of the regular narrative. It takes place over a decade before the events detailed in the book proper. In addition to setting up some back story for our hero, it also helps set the stage for the novels I mentioned at the beginning of this introduction.

  So, where does all this leave us? It leaves us with an archetype, yes, but one I love dearly. Though he is no Warlord of Mars or King Conan which I think is for the best the Journeyman is a character I hope you will be able to find common ground with. A hero whose story, though entertaining to read, is also a look at one man’s gloriously flawed humanity.

  Linus de Beville May 2018 iii

  1. THE JOURNEYMAN

  The clouds had lingered for days, filling the sky from horizon to horizon. They were cold and flat and such a pale gray as to be almost white. Motes of hard, crystalline snow drifted from this low ceiling of mist to be swept up again, to swirl and dance on the chill wind. Protruding from the icy drifts that clung to their windward side, dormant clumps of yellowed grasses waved and shook in the gale. As he strode westward, the frigid integument crackling beneath the soles of his boots, hard flakes of snow spiraled about the slate gray cloak that covered him from head to heel. They clung to its folds, glazing it with frozen whiteness.

  The Journeyman moved steadily, his pale eyes scanning what remained of the horizon now that the clouds had brought the sky so near. Ahead lay the southern expanse of the Drakkenhuuls; broken and jagged peaks locked in perpetual winter. The mountains may have been shrouded, but the Journeyman knew they were near. The wind had begun to blow more steadily from the northwest. To his trained senses this meant the first of the fells would soon be looming before him.

  As he walked the Journeyman mused on Thane and what the one-eyed mercenary had said upon passing him the hastily scrawled missive he now carried in his belt pouch. He had been handselected, though Thane could have had any one of his guildmates, and for a far lower price. Guile, however, was not their speciality. The instructions that came with this communiqué had been odd, but the pay had quelled his need to ask more than a few key questions. The Journeyman did not need to read the contents of the letter to know that it pertained to the machinations of war.

  A gust of wind, biting and cold, streamed down from the north and across the steppe. It drove the hard little flakes of snow horizontally and the Journeyman stopped and stood with his cloak held tightly about his shoulders.

  When the flurry had passed he reached into the leather pouch that hung from his belt and felt about with slim, gloved fingers for his sunstone. He located the rectangular bit of spar with the single spot of tar at its center, and pulled it free. The Journeyman raised it skyward, peering through the worn crystal. He adjusted its angle squinting his right eye as he did so. With the upper face of the spar held as level as he could manage, the Journeyman focused on the spot of tar and watched as its reflection on the back of the crystal changed ever so slightly in intensity. When both spots were equally dark the Journeyman made note of where the crystal’s long edge faced, concluding that to be the sun’s azimuth. Satisfied that he had judged his progress correctly, the Journeyman replaced the sunstone and again resumed his steady trudge.

  His strides were measured and regular, his gait calculated to move his frame easily over the gently rolling steppe. As he walked the Journeyman took in the landscape around him: Every swirl of snow, every gust and eddy of the wind, every tremulous blade of grass. Nothing escaped his gaze or interrupted the steady rhythm of his gait. For him the weather made little difference and his pace remained sure despite the frigid conditions.

  Featureless and bleak, this landscape of bent yellow grass and blowing snow sapped the spirits of most who attempted to traverse it. Winter drove the Horse Lords into their yurts to huddle around fires made of dried dung. The herds of shaggy horses and massive bison that roamed the endless expanse of the steppe were compelled to cluster together in defence against the howling wind. Those settlers hardy enough to farm the rim of the Imperium, those territories between the Drakkenhuuls and the endless expanse of the plains, cowered in their longhouses. They spoke of past raids by the bear-worshiping Huul clans and the atrocities they had committed. They spoke of the Horse Lords who claimed to have descended from the sky to tame the place where the dome of the heavens meets the earth. Collectively they took comfort in one another while outside winter held the world in its icy grip.

  In defiance of the biting wind the Journeyman moved steadily onward, quarterstaff in hand, gray cloak buckled tight. The hood of his cloak was low so as to shade his eyes from the glare of the clouds and the snow. All that could be seen of his face was his long, clean shaven chin and high graceful cheeks. His mouth was a knife slash, his lips thin and straight. His eyes, cold and nearly as gray as the clouds, peered intently from under his cowl.

  When he came to the verge, that space between the first of the fells and the last of the plains, the Journeyman halted and looked out over the edge and down at the rushing river below. The wind shifted direction, blowing hard from the east. The Journeyman planted his feet and waited for the flurry to subside.

  At the bottom of the ravine, coursing over jagged rocks and rimmed with ice, churned the Tyrnon. The river flowed southward from the Erstewald, the First Forest, its course dividing the steppes from the Drakkenhuuls. This formidable natural barrier separated the clans of the Horse Lords from the craggy domain of the barbarous Huuls. The thin strip of arable land that flanked the Tyrnon was claimed by the Hegemony and farmed by Imperial subjects.

  The Journeyman smiled to himself when he saw, not but a half kilometer to the north, the crooked stone guard tower that stood at the Wynyard ford. The sunstone had not been necessary, not really. The Journeyman had trod this route many times before and even if the clouds had descended to the earth itself he would have been able to navigate to any locus he so chose.

  Turning into the wind, again blowing steadily from the north, the Journeyman made his way along the high verge. The wind carried the faintest whiff of wood smoke and this made the corners of the Journeyman’s thin lips curl ever so slightly downwards. Smoke meant the guard tower was manned. A manned tower meant bribes.

  As he neared the tower the clouds began to lift, displaying the fells that lead upwards towards the Drakkenhuuls. The landscape beyond the river was equally as unforgiving as the windswept steppe over which the Journeyman had come. Stone spines ran along the ridges of these low mountains, the rock formations snaking upwards and disappearing into the cloud cover. Bracken and scrub clung to the sides of the steep slopes, adding a brownish-red tinge to the landscape of golden grass and blowing snow.

  When the Journeyman had drawn parallel with the river crossing he halted. Before him was a muddy and rutted track, frozen into a mass of deep ridges cut by passing cart wheels. It lead down the side of the verge at a precarious angle between walls of unevenly stacked stones. Down he went, his footing sure, his stride unvaried. Skirting a tangle of bracken the Journeyman attained level ground and marched purposefully towards the wreck of the guard tower.

  Perhaps at one time this tower, and its now long-razed twin, had served a purpose. Now it simply provided a means of extra income for the men stationed within. The tolls taken from travellers who wished to ford the river went directly into the soldier’s pockets, the funds never seeing a tax collector’s ledger.

  The fine bridge that had once spanned this section of river was now but a memory. Several years hence it been reduced to a few decaying abutments by the floodwaters that had engulfed the Erstewald and come roaring down the Tyrnon. At present, the one remaining guard tower teetered unsteadily on a foundation that had been half washed away.

  The flood that had torn the arch bridge from its moorings had deposited a large quantity of stone along the riverbed, widening it and reducing its depth. This particular section had been converted into a ford with a shoddily constru
cted clapper bridge connecting the two banks. Where once had run a river deep and swift, its passage unbroken from the Erstewald to the Clearwater Gulf, there was now an inexorably altered landscape. The irregular depth and flow of the river had choked off boat traffic and crippled trade with the south.

  The Journeyman made his way to the remaining guard tower and halted before of the man propped against it. The fellow was clad in a stained corselet of padded wool and studded bronze, leather breaches, and boots that looked as thin as parchment. His head was crowned by a plain steel nasal helmet. A sorry excuse for a sentry, but typical for an outpost such as this.

  At first the soldier took no notice of the Journeyman. When he finally registered the presence of the tall man in gray he gave a little start and half brought his spear to bear. When the soldier recognized the shade of the Journeyman’s cloak he eased out of his defensive posture and approached.

  “Papers,” said the soldier in a humorless monotone. The Journeyman fished about in the leather pouch at his belt. He came up with a folded sheet of thick parchment in which clanked two small copper marks. The soldier took the parchment from the Journeyman and in the same motion emptied the two coins into the palm of his other hand. This grubby appendage disappeared into a wallet at the man’s belt.

  “Arm,” said the soldier in the same monotone. The Journeyman deftly unhitched the buckles at his left wrist and rolled back the leather of his sleeve. When his forearm was fully revealed the Journeyman turned it so the soldier could see the thick scar just below the crook of his elbow. The scar, impressed upon his flesh years ago by a white hot brand, was in the form of the Ouroboros, a serpent swallowing its own tail. Satisfied, the soldier nodded and turned his attention to the Journeyman’s papers while the man in gray re-buckled his sleeve.

  The soldier made a great show of looking over the papers he had provided, scratching his tangled beard, his eyes darting over the looping cursive script. The Journeyman doubted if the man could write his own name let alone decipher the high handed language of his documentation. Finally the soldier handed the papers back and stepped aside, gesturing towards the ford. As he passed the Journeyman caught a glimpse of an obscene gesture the soldier directed at his back. To this slight he did not deign to react.