Tales of the Far Wanderers

by David Welch

  He drew it back twice more then unstrung the bow, using the whole weight of his body to bend it and get at the string. He wrapped everything up and slid it into its long, leather sheath, then he stomped over towards Turee. The girl danced back a half-step, but otherwise gave no ground. She had the confidence of a woman far more capable than she was, and she seemed far less afraid of things than she should be.

  After sliding the bow under one of Burden’s pack straps, he headed for Thief. Turee, seeing she wouldn’t get a rise out of her protector, jumped up on her horse. They’d bought it as they worked their way south along the Mother River, at a village of the Waving Grass People. It was a pony, easier for the petite young woman to ride. Kamith had called the horse ‘Majesty’ as a joke, but Turee had taken to the name, so it stuck.

  “So, where are we headed today?” she asked as they rode. Turee held the long rein that stretched back to Burden, leading the packhorse as they walked.

  “South,” Gunnar replied with a smirk.

  “Great,” the girl muttered. “I know I’ve asked before, but is there anything ‘south’ that we’re actually interested in seeing? Or visiting?”

  “Not particularly,” Gunnar replied.

  “Still not understanding the whole concept of ‘wandering’, are you?” Kamith asked. Gunnar chuckled.

  “Well, when most people travel, they usually go somewhere,” Turee answered.

  “We’re definitely going somewhere,” Gunnar said.

  “We just don’t know where,” Kamith said, smiling at her lover.

  Turee just huffed. The landscape was an eroded upland, water courses carving long ridges and meandering valleys, both of which made their way west towards the Mother River. The forests had been burned, clearing away underbrush and leaving behind small strands of mature trees and large stretches of grass. It formed a savannah of pines and oaks. They had initially skirted these drainages, a few miles west of the river, but as they’d moved south, the hills had stretched further and further west, meaning they’d been forced to go up and down the ridges, one after another. They weren’t very steep, and only about three hundred feet high; nothing compared to the rocky peaks of Gunnar’s distant homeland. Nevertheless, it had been slow going, tiring the horses far quicker than the open plains of the Great Grasslands to the west.

  They’d descended a ridge, scattering a herd of elk browsing under a towering pine. Luckily, a valley opened, heading south through the hills for a good distance; a chance to go easy on the horses. Not a half-mile down the valley, the open savannah stopped, replaced by a field of wheat.

  It was a long field, running down the length of the snaking valley, ascending halfway up each slope, as far as he could see. Blades of wheat poked above the soil, sown just weeks ago. It was still too early in the spring for them to see much. A muddy track made its way down the center of the field, following the valley south.

  “Love, look,” Gunnar said, pointing at it all.

  Kamith removed her recurved horsebow from its sheath, placing it in front of her on the pommel. You never knew with people. Some welcomed you with opens arms, while others preferred steel points and snarling voices. Gunnar drew his sword an inch from the scabbard and let it slide back, loosening up any cling it may have built up.

  “They could be friendly,” Turee remarked from behind them.

  “And they could be like your brother,” Gunnar remarked.

  He didn’t see Turee stiffen, but he didn’t need to.

  “Gunnar,” Kamith said reproachfully.

  He sighed and kept riding. Turee was quiet for a long while. They followed the road for several miles before coming upon a small cabin. It stood at the mouth of a hollow that branched off from the valley, running east for a half-mile or so before it curved up into a hilly ridge. The fields of wheat stopped, and the land returned to savannah, but instead of deer or elk or bison, the slopes flanking this stretch of valley fed herds of fat, brown cattle.

  A young man sat on a knoll just beside the cabin, watching the herds. He was a lanky fellow of medium height, with a mop of black hair, bronze skin, and dark blue eyes.

  “Hello!” Gunnar called in Trade Tongue.

  The man jumped at the sound. He spun around, spotted the three, and dashed down the knoll.

  “Uh, hi,” the youth said, his Trade Tongue halting and unsure. “Who-who are you?”

  “Travelers,” Gunnar replied.

  “Heading south,” Turee chirped in that annoying way only teenagers can.

  “Ah, okay? So, what do you want with me?” he stammered, nervously eying the swords that hung at Gunnar and Kamith’s hips.

  “Just want to know if there’s a village nearby, what with all the fields and herds,” Gunnar said.

  “No village,” he said. “Sanctuary. Holy place.”

  Gunnar groaned, images of the pompous magi running through his mind.

  “Not far! They like visitors,” the youth explained. “Especially ones from far away.”

  “Can you show us?” Kamith asked.

  “I would be happy to—” the boy began. His head spun, catching movement. “Hey! Hey! Get away!”

  The boy scrambled back up the knoll, shouting at a tawny shape that slinked through the grass. A cougar crept from behind a broad oak tree and stalked toward a small calf. The boy picked up a rock from a pile near the top of the knoll and fit it into a sling he pulled from a pocket on his tunic. He fumbled about, trying to build up momentum. The distant cat ignored his screams and his motions, focusing intently on its meal.

  “Y’ah!” Kamith shouted, spurring Dash. The horse leapt forwards, running for the cat. The cougar paused, cocking its head quizzically at this new player. Kamith nocked an arrow and drew, but the cat leapt away, the arrow missing by a hair’s breadth. The cat sprinted away, over the ridge and off into the rolling savannah.

  “Ah!” cried the young man. “Thank the Lord!”

  The way he said the word seemed odd to Gunnar. Why refer to a lord when that lord had done nothing to save the calf? From the reverence in his tone, it almost sounded like the young man spoke about a god.

  “Thank you!” he shouted again as Kamith rode near. “I am Yunaph. I watch the herds. At the end of the valley, the road goes uphill, to the east. Follow it and it will bring you to Sanctuary!”

  The young man paused, his eyes fixing momentarily on Turee. They held there for a long moment, full of lust and awkwardness. Gunnar whispered a prayer to his own Gods Above, asking them to keep the probably virginal youth from the lustful grasp of Turee.

  “I’ll talk to her,” Kamith said in Langal, reading his expression and guessing his thoughts.

  “That didn’t stop her last time,” Gunnar replied.

  “Hey, you talking about me?” Turee asked in Trade Tongue.

  Since she had been born in Starth, just to the north, the common Langal tongue of the western plains was gibberish to her.

  “No,” Gunnar replied.

  “I mean it! Don’t talk about me in your barbarian language!” Turee fumed.

  Poor Yunaph just looked on, his attraction replaced by a mix of confusion and fear.

  “Fine,” Gunnar replied in Trade. “We’ll make for this ‘Sanctuary’ and call it an early night. Just keep your dress on this time.”

  “Well, it’s not my fault you’re the only man in the world who won’t take a second wife! Besides, did I not get you Majesty at half the original price?” Turee snapped, riding on ahead with a red mask of anger tinting her bronze skin.

  Her sandy hair whipped in the wind behind her as she went, the poor packhorse struggling to keep up. Gunnar groaned, remembering finding her in the horse trader’s tent wearing nothing but a grin. Gunnar didn’t know if it was Turee’s womanhood that had gotten the trader to drop the price, or the fear of what Gunnar would do to him. Whatever the case, he’d dropped the price and Turee had ridden out of that village with a victorious smile on her face; a smile his best glowering had done nothing to dimin
ish. Gunnar sighed and shook his head, watching her ride off.

  “Go stop her, or she’ll tire Burden out,” Kamith said.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Gunnar grumbled. “I know.”

  ***

  They had followed the valley as instructed, then rode up the track through a dense clump of woodland. After that, the path turned east for nearly three miles, following broad, flat ridgelines. These ridges ended in a dense forest which ran down bluffs to the Mother River, but the road had turned south, following the bluffs along the river to a high point.

  That high point, the summit of the greatest of the bluffs, had been cleared of trees. Cultivated land surrounded a simple wooden palisade, inside of which clustered a half-dozen wooden buildings. Gunnar could only see a single armed man, a fellow of thirty or so winters standing near the gate. He had a spiked war club on his hip and looked bored.

  They trotted towards him, the sun beginning to arc towards the horizon, its light turning the thick yellow of late afternoon.

  “Looking to stay the night?” the man shouted in Trade, a smile crossing his face.

  “Cowherd up the valley said you’re open to visitors?” said Gunnar.

  “Sure are, provided they come in small groups,” the man said, then he eyed their weapons. “You’re not planning on robbing us? ’cause we got a dozen Jartian lancers over on the next hill.”

  “No, just passing through,” Gunnar insisted.

  “Okay then. Prelate will get you a spot in the cloister, plenty of space there to cook and tie up your horses.”

  He waved them in and returned to looking bored with the world. They rode into the complex.

  Smaller buildings clustered up against the palisade, forming an outer ring. They were mostly cabins, with some barns for storing grain. The center of the complex was dominated by a long, tall, cut-stone building. It rose three stories up and stretched for a hundred feet. Attached to its back was a squarish, wooden building. A large pair of double doors lay open on its side, revealing a courtyard within. Small, cabin-like protrusions stuck out from the square.

  But what most attracted Gunnar’s attention, amidst all of it, was the glass in the stone building. He’d seen glass stained colors before, but never in such amounts. The stone building had dozens of windows on the near side alone, some taller than he was. Each depicted ornate figures, some going about their lives, some kneeling or standing with their arms wide open. It was typical stuff for a religion, but no less beautiful for it. Even some of the windows on the squarish cloister and its dozen protruding cells had been made of the stained glass.

  One figure stood out on the windows: a bearded man with a hammer in his hand and a strange band of gold painted across his forehead. He figured it must be their deity.

  They rode through the cloister’s double doors into the courtyard within. A riot of life greeted them. A dozen other horses milled about, tied to hitching posts inside the court. A roofed arcade surrounded the courtyard, separated from the open center by a long row of wooden posts. The arcade itself was deep, taking up the whole of what Gunnar had though was the squarish building’s interior. From this arcade, numerous doors led to smaller rooms, no doubt the dwellings of the place’s keepers.

  Other travelers had set up camp under the roof of the arcade, along with a group of serious-looking folk who spent a lot of time on their knees, praying. Pilgrims, Gunnar realized as his group walked over to an empty space that lay beneath the corner of the square.

  A young woman, dressed in plain brown clothes similar to Yunaph’s, spotted them and disappeared into the tall building. When she emerged, she escorted two figures. One was an older-looking man with graying hair and a bushy beard. The other was a tall, handsome, bronze-skinned man in the prime of life. Both wore the same plain-brown garb as the woman who’d summoned them, but they walked with presence and authority. The tall fellow knew eyes were on him and nearly strutted in response. The older man simply ambled forward peaceably, assured and confident, having no need for the world’s attention.

  “Welcome!” said the tall fellow. “I am Vadid, Prelate of the Sanctuary of the Virgin’s River. This is our wordkeeper, Tark.”

  The old man waved and smiled warmly.

  “Hello,” Gunnar replied. “We’re only looking to spend the night.”

  “And you are welcome,” Vadid said, looking each one of them over. Gunnar couldn’t help but notice his eyes strayed longer on both Kamith and Turee than they should have. “May I ask, have you traveled far?”

  “Why do you ask?” Gunnar replied.

  “My brother here,” Vadid said, gesturing to Tark, “he compiles knowledge. The Carpenter has charged us, in this fallen world, to recover as much knowledge of the times before as we can and remember what we ourselves learn as we go through life. Tark and his scribes love writing the tales of travelers, so all can learn from your experience after you have left us.”

  Vadid returned his eyes to Turee, his head slanting slightly as if he recognized the girl. Then he shook it off and returned his gaze to Gunnar.

  “I am sorry, she resembles a woman my sister was once friends with. Though she is much too young to be her,” he explained.

  Gunnar watched him for a long second, something not sitting right about the man. He had a gifted tongue; that was for sure. Gunnar had met plenty such people, who spoke splendidly but revealed little truth.

  “Is something wrong?” Vadid asked, shrinking under Gunnar’s glare.

  “No,” Kamith said, placing her hand on Gunnar’s forearm. “We would love to tell of our travels.”

  “Have you traveled far?” Tark finally asked. “I can’t place your accent.”

  “Langal,” Gunnar replied simply, figuring there was little chance they would know of the Tarn.

  The man’s eyes lit up.

  “From beyond the Great Grasslands? Under the Spine of the World?” Tark asked excitedly.

  “Most people around here haven’t heard of the Langal kingdoms,” Gunnar said.

  “We haven’t had anybody come through from that far west in nearly a decade, and even he didn’t talk much! Had to pay him to get two pages. Please, you have to tell me everything about your homeland!” the old man bubbled on.

  “I will,” Gunnar said. “But we would like to rest a bit first. And to eat something.”

  “Of course, when you are rested. Please, enjoy your stay. The Carpenter commands we help those in need, so if there is anything you require,” Tark offered, flashing a half-smile at Turee, “just ask. His peace be with you.”

  Vadid bowed his head. Gunnar turned and found himself looking at a smitten Turee. She had a goofy grin, and her eyes followed the handsome prelate as he disappeared into the long building.

  “Turee,” Kamith said.

  “Huh?” the young woman said, caught. “What? I wasn’t doing anything!”

  “I never said you were,” Kamith replied.

  Turee huffed and went to unload her few belongings from Burden. Gunnar sighed, wondering again how exactly he’d ended up with a teenager when he was only twenty-seven winters himself.

  ***

  They ate a haunch of venison Kamith had shot the day before, roasting it over a large, open, stone firepit in the middle of the courtyard. Others cooked over the same fire, so wide did it stretch. After eating, Kamith and Gunnar strolled into the long building, curiosity getting the best of them. He figured if any god was worth so much expensive stained glass, it might be worth looking into.

  They found the building to be one giant chamber, long and echoing. The stone walls rose solemnly around them, their stark, dark-gray rock a striking contrast to the soft tints of the glass. Candles in sconces cast flickering patches of dim light across the building, enough to suggest the presence of thick, wooden rafters holding up an angled roof, but Gunnar couldn’t get a good look at them.

  Most of the building itself was empty. Mats were scattered about the floor, woven from reeds that grew on the banks of the Mother River and ox
bow lakes that flanked it along its long course. Clearly, they had some sort of gathering in here. In the center of the room stood a circular altar, above which, hanging from the ceiling, presided a wooden statue of the Carpenter.

  “The One True God,” a vaguely familiar voice said from across the room. Tark ambled over, joining them in looking upon the hanging statue.

  “I’ve heard that before,” Gunnar said.

  “When the ancients built glimmering cities of metal and glass, they worshiped the Carpenter, one who is both god and man. His grace allowed them to grow into the glory that we, in this fallen age, only whisper about around the fire,” Tark explained.

  “My people believe the ancients became so powerful they left Earth to walk amongst the stars and became the Gods Above,” Gunnar noted.

  “I have heard this belief,” Tark said, nodding. “But the ancients are no gods. They were merely men at the best of their abilities, doing things and living lives we cannot imagine. So degraded has man become.”

  “You’ll forgive me if I don’t take your word for that,” Gunnar said.

  “I will indeed,” Tark replied. “I have to. The Carpenter commands I help all, not just those who agree with me.”

  “Well, mighty civil of him,” Kamith said with a shrug.

  Gunnar nodded, remembering the circumstance by which he’d met Kamith.

  “It is hard for people to think of themselves as fallen. The world has been as it is for so long that many forget it has been both greater and worse. Men used to grow steel horses that could travel in an hour what a fast horse can do in a day. It is said they flew as birds on trails of fire, fire that roared yet did not burn the men and women of the time,” explained Tark.

  “Easy to say lots of things,” Gunnar pointed out.

  “Ah, skeptical, good!” Tark said, then he laughed heartily. “You won’t believe how many people walk in here and start babbling on after I tell them of things past, so desperate for hope that my tales strike all reason from them.”