Tales of the Far Wanderers

by David Welch

  “But you said you were Langal, too?” said Fergoth.

  “Half. From my father. He ran away, into the woods, wandered around until my grandfather’s warriors found him, lost and half-starved. He’d been a blacksmith, and the Tarn needed people who could work metal, so he stayed. Married my mother and had me,” Gunnar explained

  “Ha! Quite a story, my friend,” Fergoth said. “Now, me, I’ve never seen a big village —”

  “They call them ‘cities’,” Gunnar said.

  “Right, a ‘city’. Saw the Mountains of the Stone Gods once, from a way off, but no peaks so big they always got ice, even in the summer.”

  “Well, Harmon is a long way away,” Gunnar replied, turning back to the meat. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Kamith focusing intently on her task. She cut off a strip of meat then paused, staring at her blood-covered hands.

  “I-I’m going to bathe,” she announced suddenly, her voice cool. “We’ve been on the trail for a long time.”

  “Are you alright?” Gunnar asked as she went. She flashed him a perfunctory smile and continued on, striding off for the distant river. Gunnar watched her go, noticing the tension in her form as she walked.

  Fergoth took one look at the situation then shook his head and clucked knowingly. Gunnar scowled and got to his feet. He moved to follow Kamith.

  He found her sitting on a rock, her feet submerged to the ankles in the slow-moving water. The sun had fallen to the horizon, darkening the valley to a dusky gray.

  “My feet are cold,” she said, staring down at her toes.

  “Did I say something that upset you?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she mumbled. “I’m not sure.”

  “You knew I was part Langal,” he said.

  “I know, but I-I didn’t know you were part of the Kingdoms. Plenty of Langal live in tribes along the grass, and I figured, you know…”

  “That I had as well?”

  She nodded, and then she continued.

  “The things I hear about those kingdoms… Settlements with walls six men high? Armies in the thousands? Horses clad in steel and trained to run down men?”

  “All true,” he replied.

  “And you, with your sword, you were part of that?”

  “Yes,” he answered. “Though not by choice.”

  She cocked her head, meeting his eyes. He moved to sit next to her on the rock, removing his boots and submerging his feet. He nearly jolted out of the water; she hadn’t been kidding about the cold.

  “As I told you when we met, the Kingdoms raided the Tarn for slaves. All the time. They fell on one of our villages and rounded up everybody. They saw my father, called him a traitor, and killed him. Sold everybody else, except me.”

  “I’m still not sure why they would save you,” she said. “Even if you were a half-breed.”

  “It’s a religious thing to them. Since I had their blood, the lord leading the raid thought I could be ‘saved’ if educated properly.”

  “But your father, a full-blooded Langal, could not?” she asked.

  “He was a traitor to them, so no. But me, well, they figured I ‘didn’t know what I was missing’ since I had been ‘raised by savages’. So there was a chance that they could save me, or part of me. Their gods are inconsistent on how far men of ‘tainted blood’ can be redeemed. Anyway, I was barely fourteen years old when they took me. Eventually, they dropped me in the barracks to become a foot soldier. Sent me to fight the other Langal kingdoms so I wouldn’t try and run off back to my mother’s people. After about ten years of that, I decided if I couldn’t escape west, I’d go east. That was three years ago.”

  “So you can’t go back?” she asked.

  “Not to the Kingdoms,” he said. “Maybe to my mother’s people. But if the Langal found me again…”

  She let out a heavy breath. He’d been unaware she’d been holding it.

  “Do you have any family? Anyone else there?”

  “An older sister. Well, half-sister. My mother was a widow. Both she and my father lived in my grandfather’s village for a while. My dad looked after her daughter a lot when she was working with the other women, raised the girl as his own since she was two. My sister had already married and moved to another camp when the slavers came.”

  A long moment of silence followed.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t have doubted you.”

  “I get it, Kam,” he replied. “The Kingdoms have a brutish reputation—”

  “But you saved my life,” she said. “And you kept me around when you didn’t have to. I don’t know why I felt you might be… something else.”

  “Healthy suspicion,” he countered. “It keeps you alive when you’re on your own.”

  “Misplaced suspicion,” she replied, resting her head on his shoulder.

  He felt his muscles relax. Then they seized up tight, splashed with cold water from the river. Kamith danced in front of him, shimmying out of her buckskin pants and tunic. She tossed them onto the shore, revealing her sleek, toned form.

  “Gonna have to be a quick ‘bath’,” she said with an inviting smile. “What with the water being so cold…”

  Gunnar dashed after her, all thoughts of temperature vanishing with the chase.

  ***

  A scream rent the night. Gunnar’s eyes flashed open, his hand instinctively grabbing the sword that lay at his side. A few embers burned in the center of the lodge, casting a dim light upon the chamber.

  Kamith was up in an instant, her naked form pressed against his, her head up and peering into the darkness. Rustling came from across the lodge; others awakening.

  Another scream. Gunnar grabbed his pants, pulling them on quickly. He found his shield and sword in the darkness and dashed for the entrance. A large figure, Fergoth, beat him to it, a six-foot spear in hand.

  A dozen horses galloped through the settlement, their riders hurling torches every which way. The flaming brands dropped harmlessly against the earthen lodges, singeing off sod but doing no real damage. Drying racks, some stripped of meat and hides, burned across the camp, and three women lay across the laps of the riders, struggling to get free. The attackers laughed at their troubles and whooped victoriously, charging down the guards who had been watching the village. One saw Fergoth and Gunnar and charged straight for them. He had a bow in hand and moved to draw it back.

  Fergoth’s spear leapt from his hand, striking the man hard in the chest. It drove through the attacker’s leather armor, ripping through his chest and out his back. Another rider sprinted in from Fergoth’s side, moving to run the now unarmed man through with a lance. Gunnar dashed around the man, lifting his shield. He deflected the blow left and then lunged forward with his sword as the man rode by, stabbing him in the ribs. The rider fell to the ground. Gunnar ripped his sword free and then rammed the tip of his blade through the man’s throat.

  A third rider approached but then pulled up and reversed direction. As he went, an arrow struck his back, knocking him from the horse. Gunnar turned. Kamith stood behind him, still naked but holding a bow and with a quiver over one shoulder. She quickly nocked another arrow, but she didn’t need to. The commotion had awoken the town, and they streamed out of their lodges, spears and bows at the ready. Two young men fell on the wounded rider, finishing what Kamith had begun.

  The light of burning racks illuminated the village in an orange glow. People milled about, poking at the three bodies, making sure everybody was there. Screams of anguish erupted when some found their loved ones dead. The three sentries guarding the village had been taken down mercilessly, riddled with shafts. More screams rose when families found their wives and daughters missing. One such anguished cry erupted from behind them.

  Gunnar turned to see Fergoth, his face a mask of rage.

  “They took her!” he bellowed. “They’ve taken her!”

  He repeated his angry shout several more times. His little girl clung to an older woman’s leg, and
Gunnar presumed this was her grandmother. Fergoth wandered aimlessly across the camp, tears streaming freely down his face as he screamed in rage.

  “They’ve never entered the village before,” said a voice at Gunnar’s side.

  He turned to see Seamot, the village chief. He was a graying man in his fifties, the already deep lines in his face darkened with rage and sadness.

  “We should track them,” Gunnar said.

  Seamot turned, surprise breaking through his anguish.

  “You would ride with us? You’re visiting—”

  “I’ll help,” Gunnar replied. “If you need it.”

  Seamot stared at him curiously.

  “You’ve known us for less than a day, westerner.”

  “I know,” he said, images of Kamith’s past helplessness flashing through his mind. “It’s a bad habit of mine, jumping in, but I’ll help all the same.”

  Seamot nodded and extended his hand. The two shook firmly, then the chief spoke.

  “I will round up the men and return Fergoth to his senses. If I can.”

  Seamot moved off, darting between the menfolk. Gunnar turned to Kamith.

  “I suppose you won’t be content to stay here?” he asked. Her determined look answered his question. “Alright. Let’s get ready.”

  ***

  Dawn broke as they rode, following the trampled grass of the enemy riders. Their foes had several hours head start and had ridden hard north-east. But their burdens, the meat and women they’d stolen, slowed them. The two dozen Vale People rode faster, slowly catching up with their enemies.

  By the standards of the region, the Vale People were well armed. Each wore leather armor, with overlapping strips of boiled, hardened leather protecting their chests and backs. Each also had a heavy spear slotted into a sheath attached to their saddles, and they all carried a bow on their backs and two quivers of arrows at their hips. Hanging off the other side of their saddles were shields. Each was several layers of buffalo hide stretched over a wooden frame. As shields, they weren’t nearly as tough as Gunnar’s, but they were nothing to sneer at. It could take a dozen arrows to bring down a bison, and three of their thick hides would stop almost any shaft. Kamith, back in her pants and tunic, had borrowed a second quiver from the Vale People and rode alongside him.

  Gunnar’s own armor consisted of a chain-mail shirt, which ran from his elbows to his shoulders, then down to mid-thigh. Over it, he wore the surcoat of the locals, with its boiled-leather-on-leather make. His forearms, legs, and head were exposed. That made him a little uncomfortable, but he couldn’t change it now. He worried more about arrows. Chain-mail wouldn’t always stop a direct hit. Hopefully, the leather would be thick enough to compensate. His shield lay on his left arm, and his sword lay in its sheath as he rode, inches away from his right hand.

  The race slowed for a moment, several of the warriors spotting something in the waist-high grass. The war party edged closer, disgust twisting their faces. On the ground lay a young woman; one of their own. Four arrows protruded from her back. From the direction she faced, it was clear she’d been shot down while trying to escape.

  “Mark it,” one warrior commanded. A spare spear was taken out and thrust into the ground near the body, so they could retrieve her when this was over. They rode on, pushing their mounts hard across the prairie.

  “Hold,” called Angot, the lead warrior. A stern-faced man with a cool temperament and a half-dozen visible battle scars, his words had an immediate effect on the warriors. They quickly came to a stop atop rolling bluffs, which overlooked a wide valley some hundred feet below. A broad, shallow river, full of spits and sandy islands, cut through the valley in a meandering pattern. Trees clung close to the banks.

  “There!” said Fergoth, pointing.

  They gazed through the grey dim of early morning. A half-mile up the river, a group of horses grazed. Nearby, hide tents had been thrown up, near where a small creek entered the river. Figures moved about, some sitting around a small fire at the edge of the camp.

  Angot surveyed the nearby land and then motioned the warriors back. They rode behind the crest of the bluffs, following the valley north, out of sight of their enemies. Every so often, a rider would spur his horse to the edge to get their position. After a few minutes, he told them to stop, that they were there.

  “Alright,” Angot said to his people. “Kilthern and Taloth, once we attack, ride around the camp and into the river. Try to cut off their escape. Fergoth, you and your friend know what to do?”

  Fergoth nodded grimly, as did Gunnar. While the others would form a perimeter around the camp, he and the giant got to run in and bring the fight to the Cold Serpents. Fergoth had even forsaken his bow, selecting a two-headed war axe. He removed it from its bindings, hefting it in his hands. The blades formed dark silhouettes in the early light, and a small spike protruded from the end of the shaft. Gunnar pulled his sword and spurred his horse next to the large man.

  “Go, then,” said Angot.

  The war party surged forwards, following a broad ridge down into the valley. The horses galloped full out, tearing towards the camp at blistering speed. On the open grassland, surprise wasn’t always possible, but today it wasn’t needed.

  Fergoth and Gunnar held back behind the bulk of the party. The Vale People drew their bows as they rode, closing on the camp quickly. A flurry of arrows rained down on their foes, striking their sentry with a half-dozen sleek metal points. The man fell before he could lift his bow. Arrows rained down on the firepits and the hide tents. The Cold Serpents raced about in a panic, shouting frantically at each other. Another fell as he ran for his horse, arrows in his legs and back.

  The war party drew within a hundred yards. Half of the Cold Serpents reached their horses and galloped away. As they went, Kilthern and Taloth, moving into their position, shot furiously at them from behind. One went down with an arrow in the neck, falling into the shallow river and rolling through the muddy water. Another took an arrow to the thigh but kept riding, escaping. A third fell suddenly, a shaft punching through his spine and crippling him instantly. He lurched and fell from his horse on the far bank, helpless. The others moved away too quickly, out of range before the two Vale men could get off a shot. Kilthern and Taloth let them go, turning back to the men still alive in the camp.

  The remaining Cold Serpents made no move to reach their horses. The ten of them stood with spears but no shields, panicked and trembling.

  “Leave the ones in the middle alive for Fergoth,” Angot said casually. “It’s best his rage be put to use.”

  A wave of arrows leapt out at the cornered men. In a handful of seconds, six of them went down, only to be shot again so that they did not get up. The Vale warriors readied arrows for a third barrage but did not shoot. Instead, they spread around the camp, surrounding it. On the far ridge of the valley, across the river, the nine survivors halted their horses and watched.

  Fergoth and Gunnar rode into the camp, dismounting at its edge. They paced slowly towards their enemies, letting the fear sink in. People of the plains usually battled on horseback with arrows, from a distance. It was a tactic that worked well on the open plains, but it also meant few of them had faced an armed foe close up. The chief had made it quite clear that he wanted them afraid; he wanted word of how these men died to run through any Cold Serpent bands still lurking around the territory.

  Fergoth struck first, sprinting forward with his axe over his head. Gunnar followed close by, to keep them from ganging up on the big man. A spear thrust hit Fergoth’s shield, ripping the hide but sticking in it, immobilizing the weapon. Fergoth’s axe came down on his attacker’s head, biting deep into their brain.

  Gunnar strode purposefully towards an opponent. The man fought with a partner, and they lunged at him together, both thrusting fiercely with their spears. Gunnar parried left with his shield, deflecting one blow. He twisted at the waist to avoid the other thrust, then brought his sword up hard, knocking the stave from the
man’s hand. The first attacker darted left, trying to stab him from the side. Gunnar’ shield flicked left, the spear’s point humming as it deflected off his metal boss. The second attacker pulled a knife.

  Gunnar thrust forward with his sword, half of the steel blade punching through the man’s sternum and into his chest. As he fell to the ground, blood frothing from his mouth, the first attacker came in again, stabbing for Gunnar’s feet. Thinking quickly, Gunnar released his sword and brought his shield down hard on the man’s spear. The weight of it pinned the shaft to the ground. Gunnar pivoted, bringing his right foot up and slamming it down on the shaft of the trapped spear. It snapped from the impact, leaving the man defenseless. The Cold Serpent stared at his broken shaft for a long moment, and then he ran for the river.

  A half-dozen arrows hit him before he made ten steps. He pitched forward into the grass, twitched, then lay still. Gunnar retrieved his sword and looked to see how Fergoth fared. He had taken down a second enemy and now hacked repeatedly at the dead body. Anguished roars escaped his lips as he struck, again and again. Blood and gore flew with each blow.

  “Fergoth!” Angot shouted, spurring his horse into the camp.

  The big man paused, motionless for a long moment. He shook his head suddenly, as if waking from a trance, then blinked. He dropped the axe and moved towards the tents with long strides.

  A figure crawled out from one of the hide tents. Maros struggled to move on her hands and knees, her body battered and naked. Her face was puffed from beatings, her eyes blackened and nearly swollen shut. Blood dripped from abrasions on her cheek, and more cuts and bruises covered her body, her breasts marred by bite marks. It confirmed Gunnar’s worst fears. She had clearly fought with her captors, but against so many men, it had been a doomed effort.