Tales of the Far Wanderers

by David Welch

  But something waited between the gate and them. A dark form, standing stock-still in front of them.

  “Who is that?” asked Vadid.

  One of his henchmen held up the lamp. A woman stood before them.

  “Kamith!” Turee shrieked.

  The lead man, seeing a woman standing before him with a sword, laughed at the sight.

  “Should we take this one, too? Just look at those legs!” the soldier laughed.

  “Kill her,” Vadid said.

  “Aw, alright,” the soldier laughed, and he strode forward, swinging his club high above his head.

  Kamith’s blade flashed. The sharp curved edge slashed deep into the man’s chest before he could begin his downward arc. It cut deep, spilling blood from a gaping wound. The soldier bellowed in pain, his tortured wail splitting the night.

  The sword flashed again, arcing up towards the man’s wrists. The blade slashed through one wrist and bit deep into the other. The war club and a severed hand fell to the grass, tumbling away. The man collapsed, choking and gasping as he died. Kamith’s eyes, usually so friendly and vibrant, fixed harshly on Vadid.

  “Let go of her,” she demanded.

  Vadid seized Turee’s head, lifting the knife back to her throat. A commotion arose as people rushed out to see what was going on, lanterns held aloft. A figure sprinted ahead of them, barreling through the darkness.

  Gunnar!

  He emerged into the dim light of the lantern, his long, straight blade ready to hack flesh from bone.

  “Stay back!” Vadid roared.

  Tark arrived, followed by a dozen frightened and confused acolytes. They stared dumbfounded at their prelate, their leader. Vadid’s handsome face was twisted with rage and fear, snarling as it turned from person to person.

  “What are you doing?” Tark demanded. “Let go of her!”

  “Why is she naked?” an acolyte asked.

  “I will kill the whore,” Vadid bellowed, “if you do not get us horses! Do you hear me?”

  Nobody moved.

  “He’s trying to sell me to my brother!” Turee wailed. “Please!”

  Kamith’s glare darkened, her grip tightening on her slashing blade.

  “Vadid, is this true?” Tark asked. “You’ve broken the peace of our home for a handful of coins?”

  “Shut up!” the prelate snarled. “It’s not a handful; it’s a fucking lifetime of gold!”

  Tark shook his head sadly. “You fool, you’ve lost your way—”

  “I don’t want to hear it!” Vadid snapped. “We stay here and people walk about, believing in sun spirits and men dead long ago! They insult God, and I live in a damned cabin! No more! I ride to Starth with the girl, I get the gold, and I build a church, so that all will see! By the Carpenter, maybe I even become the king’s advisor! He rewards those who help him, and if this little slut is the cost—”

  “Release her, Vadid,” Gunnar demanded, his voice cold.

  “I am not afraid of you, outlander!” the prelate roared.

  “You should be,” Gunnar said. “Understand; whether the girl lives or dies, I will hunt you down. Hide amongst kings and queens or the Gods Above, it won’t matter. I will find you.” Vadid blinked, unnerved by the cold evenness of his enemy’s voice. “And I won’t kill you, Vadid,” Gunnar revealed. “I have something much better in mind.”

  “Keep talking, savage, I’ll cut her right now,” Vadid boasted half-heartedly.

  “You know what the hot sword torture is?” Gunnar pressed. “Really simple: you heat a sword over a fire until it’s red hot. Then, you chop off somebody’s limb, or cock, whatever you’re in the mood for. Then, while the blade’s still hot, you use it to sear the wound closed. Limb by limb, I take one piece at a time, and I sear the wound closed so you won’t bleed to death and get out of it quickly. And, when you’re nothing but a body with stumps, who knows, maybe I’ll take your eyes and tongue too. Just to spite you.” Vadid’s breathing slowed, his face white with terror. “And that’ll be your life. No gold, no power, not even able to cry out to your precious Carpenter.”

  The prelate’s free arm shook, but he held his grasp around Turee’s chest.

  “Or, you can walk out of here, alone and unarmed,” Gunnar said. “What you do from there, I don’t care, but that’s how this is going to happen.”

  “And if he doesn’t do it, I will,” Kamith declared, then she smiled evilly. “Or maybe I’ll just kill you quick and save myself all that work.”

  “She does get impatient,” Gunnar remarked.

  Playing her part perfectly, Kamith swung her sword through the air in front of her, taking practice swings.

  Vadid’s henchman dropped his club and ran off towards the gate. Vadid’s knife hung an inch away from Turee’s neck, shaking.

  “I want a horse,” the prelate murmured.

  “No horse,” Tark insisted. “You heard the man. You walk out of here or… or all those horrible things happen.”

  He didn’t walk, he ran. The knife fell to the grass at Turee’s feet, and Vadid shot off into the night.

  Turee collapsed to her hands and knees, bawling uncontrollably, retching on the grass. Kamith dashed to her side, rubbing her back and arm as the girl dry-heaved.

  “Somebody find her clothes,” Tark ordered. The stunned acolytes spurred into motion, a half-dozen running for Vadid’s cabin. They emerged moments later with the leather dress.

  Kamith got Turee to her feet and helped the shattered young woman pull the dress over her head. The girl’s head fell against her shoulder as she sobbed, and Kamith led her back towards the courtyard, whispering reassurances and folding the young woman’s hands tightly within her own.

  Gunnar stood by the gate for a long while, watching to make sure Vadid didn’t return. Finally, the acolytes closed the gate in front of him, and he trudged slowly back to their spot in the cloister.

  ***

  Another day’s rest at Sanctuary had done little to lift Turee’s mood. She said nothing as they rode south, sitting lifelessly on Majesty, staring off into a void only she could see. They stopped by a stretch of open riverfront to water the horses and take a midday meal.

  Turee sat next to the water, staring into the depths. Kamith sat behind her, rubbing her shoulders to comfort her. They spoke quietly, but Gunnar could hear every word.

  “He lied to me,” the girl whispered.

  “I know, I know. Men lie to get sex,” Kamith explained.

  “That’s never happened to me,” Turee whispered.

  “It’s different, out here,” Kamith said. “You have to be very careful. It’s not the palace; there aren’t people looking out for you. Besides us.”

  “I feel… used,” the girl said, the last word too much for her to get her mind around. “He was going to sell me like a slave… to… to him.”

  “I know, I know,” Kamith repeated, hugging the young woman to her chest. “It’s okay.”

  Gunnar turned from them, chewing angrily on a piece of jerky. He’d meant to hew the girl out for being so stupid, but there was no point. Reality had taught her a lesson his words never could. He sighed and let them talk, pulling the longbow from Burden. He strung the bow and drew back on the string.

  “We’ll teach you to fight,” Kamith reassured her. “Gun taught me, and he can teach you. You’ll never have to be helpless again.”

  Turee’s face turned, fixing on Gunnar as he drew, again and again. Unaware, Gunnar pulled back with a burst of strength, managing to draw the string to his cheek. His muscles strained and hurt, but he held the draw for a few seconds.

  “You almost did it,” Turee whispered.

  Gunnar jolted, noticing the young girl’s gaze.

  “Almost,” he replied.

  “Thank you,” she said, then she turned back to the river, more fresh tears streaming down her face.

  When they rode again, Turee moved ahead, out of earshot. Burden struggled to keep up under his packs, but the young woman didn�
�t notice. She was too wrapped up in her own pain.

  “She’ll tire out Burden,” Kamith complained, riding beside him.

  “She’ll tire out us,” Gunnar said. “I don’t know what to do with her.”

  “Just keep being her protector,” Kamith said. “She’s young and sheltered. It’ll take time for reality to set in.”

  “And if she gets herself raped and killed before then?” Gunnar grumbled.

  “She won’t,” Kamith said. “You won’t let her.”

  “I can’t be around her every second,” Gunnar grumbled. “And what if she gets all hot about a boy again the next time we stop?”

  “I don’t think she’s going to make the same mistake again,” Kamith said.

  “She better not.”

  “And if not, I could share you,” Kamith said beneath her breath.

  He paused, not sure he’d heard her correctly. Kamith avoided his gaze, confirming that the words had been spoken.

  “You’re the one I love,” Gunnar said firmly. “Always.”

  “I was a second wife, Gunnar, I can deal with—”

  “You’re second to nobody,” Gunnar replied. “Turee will have to learn to control herself.”

  “Yes,” Kamith agreed. “But she is nearly of marrying age. Eventually, she’ll stop being a spoiled, horny girl and start looking for somebody to build a life with. What then?”

  “I don’t know, we leave her at a town! Or pick up somebody for her! I don’t know these things,” Gunnar exclaimed.

  “Neither do I,” said Kamith. “Neither does she.”

  Gunnar tightened his hands on the reins. Turee was getting too far ahead, almost out of sight.

  “I’ll go get her,” he sighed. “Before she tires that poor horse out.”

  He spurred Thief forwards, and they rode on south.

  The Sword of Mercy

  “That river there is the Sandwater,” said the boatman from the keel. A rotund fellow with an oddly high-pitched voice, he worked the rudder lazily as they slowly crossed the wide expanse of the Mother River. Slaves manned two longs rows of oars, one on each side of the ferry, pulling the large wooden boat across towards the eastern shore.

  “The Sandwater comes into the Mother here. Follow it west and it forms the border between Jarte and Skar’gat,” the boatman explained. “To the north is Jarte, to the south is Skar’gat.”

  “Are there any dolphins here?” Turee asked the boatman. “I hear they breathe air like people!”

  “No ma’am,” he replied from the keel. “Gotta go all the way down the river to see those. Down south by the Big Salted Waters.”

  “Oh,” she said disappointedly, but she still stared into the murky depths.

  The boat finished crossing the river, landing on a point on the southern shore of the Sandwater, where it met the Mother River. People began to file off the boats, either going on foot or leading horses down wide ramps. Gunnar felt safer stepping off onto dry ground. The Mother River was so great and wide that it could not be forded, which meant to cross it he had to depend on others. That wasn’t a feeling he was ever very comfortable with.

  “Make sure to come back this way! Safest ferry on the whole of the Mother!” the boatman shouted as people walked away.

  No town awaited them. The point was swampy lowland, crisscrossed with creeks and marshes. A dirt road led east, following the southern bank of the Sandwater River. To the southeast, bluffs rose four hundred feet up, looming over the confluence of the two rivers. Patches of crumbly cliff stuck out of the bluffs, breaking the green monotony of the thick, forest-covered slopes. A stone keep rose high from the top of the bluff, overlooking both the confluence and the border with Jarte. Gunnar could see tiny figures patrolling its roof: soldiers.

  “So this is Skar’gat,” Kamith said with a shrug. “Doesn’t look all that special.”

  “There are more towns in the kingdoms,” Gunnar said. “Should be able to spend some nights indoors.”

  “Eh,” Kamith said with a wave. “Tent keeps the rain out well enough.”

  “Maybe some place with a bath,” Turee griped. “Not that cold rivers aren’t fun…”

  Kamith raised an eyebrow.

  “A what?” she asked.

  “A big stone pool of warm water,” Gunnar explained. “For cleaning.”

  “And relaxing,” Turee added.

  “Why do I get the feeling you ‘relaxed’ in more than your share?” Gunnar asked.

  The young woman bristled.

  “You could use a little ‘relaxing’ yourself!” she snapped. “You might actually like not having to be a hardass all the time!”

  She spurred forwards to put a few feet between them, as she often did when she clashed with Gunnar. Kamith sighed.

  “You have to push her like that?” she demanded.

  “A disapproving word now might keep her from getting raped in a bathhouse later,” he replied.

  “I think she learned that lesson already,” Kamith retorted.

  “Never hurts to remind her,” Gunnar said.

  “It might, if she ends up hating you,” Kamith replied.

  “What good is her liking me if she ends up dead or enslaved?” Gunnar asked.

  “You’re too hard on her,” Kamith said defensively. She and Turee had become like sisters, especially lately. Gunnar did like to see Kamith happy, chatting away with the younger woman, but he still worried. He always worried. Worry keeps you alive, his mother’s voice said, drifting through his head.

  They followed the road for most of the afternoon, dark clouds rolling in from the west. The road clung to the bottomlands, avoiding the slopes and ravines of the small hills to the immediate south. The land was a patchwork of forest and farmland. Wheat and corn grew in long rows in some fields, while cattle and sheep grazed in others. Shepherds and cowherds drifted about, tending to herds close to the road so they could chat with passersby and enliven their day. Turee had no problem doing this, making a half-dozen new friends in as many miles and then saying goodbye to them forever as they walked on.

  As sunset approached, they came upon a narrow valley running up from the south and into the bottomlands of the Sandwater. A sign in a script that he couldn’t read pointed to the south. From the smoke rising above the valley, some ways off, Gunnar could tell a settlement was near.

  “Stop for the night?” he asked.

  They weren’t particularly tired, but they agreed and headed down the valley. A couple of deer fled into the hillside woods as they approached, but beyond that they saw nothing but fields and farmers. After moving through a mile of such farmland, the valley split into two. At the split sat the town, surrounded by a wooden palisade atop an earthen berm. Three dozen wooden buildings, mostly two and three stories tall, rose behind the wall. The ridge that formed the split between the valleys rose two hundred feet above the town, sporting an earth-and-wood fortress at its crest for people to flee to, should Jartian warriors come raiding.

  The gates in the wall lay open, and a clump of women in identical, pale-blue robes moved towards the town. They sang in a sonorous chant, clearly part of some religious group. Gunnar didn’t know what they were singing about, but the melody was beautiful. Several frightened-looking young children followed them, their faces dirty and clothes tattered. Orphans, Gunnar realized.

  A shout rang out, and a blur of motion tore from the woods a few hundred feet to his right. It was a man on a horse who sprinted forwards, whooping viciously as he swung a sword in his free hand. He darted for the women and their charges. The terrified women screamed and tried to shield the children.

  Gunnar froze, recognition flaring in his mind as he watched the rider close on the children. He’d seen him before. The rider wore a surcoat, originally brown but stained red with the blood of hundreds. Rusty chain-mail ran from under the surcoat. The rider had a long face and tangled, greasy, blond hair. A long scar marred the left side of his face, from temple to jaw.

  “No,” Gunnar whisper
ed. “It can’t be.”

  The rider crashed into the group, slashing and hacking violently with his sword. Two women went down quickly, blood flying from their bodies as the sword ripped through flesh and artery.

  Gunnar pulled his sword and charged, silent and consumed, his face a mask of rage. Memories flashed through his mind, but he pushed them aside. He wanted one thing now: the monster’s blood.

  The rider had just skewered a ten-year-old girl when the noise of hooves caught his attention. Turning to see his foe, his eyes grew wide with recognition and terror. Experience snapped him out of it, and he charged at his old enemy, whooping triumphantly as he rode towards Gunnar.

  Gunnar stabbed at the man as he passed, but the rider parried the blow. Gunnar whipped the sword up and around quickly, managing to backswing and hack at the rider’s back as he went by. The sword struck against the surcoat, the chain-mail absorbing the force. Gunnar realized, as he turned to go again, that his own armor was on their packhorse.

  He ignored the disadvantage, fighting to keep his fear from bubbling up and consuming him, but he had no need to. Men armed with spears ran from the town, and the rider dashed for the woods, his black horse quickly carrying him far from the angry townsfolk. People swirled around the blue-robed sisters, some sobbing, some shouting angrily towards the forest, where the rider had vanished.

  Kamith was at his side moments after it ended, her hand resting on her bow, but the rider was already out of range.

  “Who was that?” she asked, fear and confusion evident in her voice. “Did you know that man?”

  “Know him? No,” Gunnar said. “But I have sworn an oath to kill him.”

  ***

  They rode into the village amidst the wails of grief-stricken sisters, who scurried from the town to remove their fallen brethren and the poor orphan girl. Blowing horns sounded throughout the city in a slow, repeating dirge. They continued through angry streets to an inn, where they got a room for the night and tied up their horses.