Tales of the Far Wanderers

by David Welch

  Several brothers wandered over, looking with satisfied eyes at the Reaper’s lifeless head. One clasped Gunnar’s shoulder as if they’d fought alongside each other their whole lives.

  “You will stay tonight,” the anchoress said, more a command than an offer. “We will feast and celebrate the death of this heathen!”

  The brothers let up a cheer at this, and several of the sisters smiled knowing smiles at them.

  “Sisters feast?” Gunnar asked Kamith. “Where I come from, nuns didn’t even eat meat!”

  Kamith shrugged and then flashed Gunnar a ‘knowing’ smile of her own.

  “We won’t have to be so quiet tonight,” she said. “Walls muffle sound far better than tents.”

  Without another word, she moved away, knowing full well Gunnar would be a short step behind her.

  ***

  “Those sisters know how to celebrate,” Gunnar said as they rode east. His head still hurt from the dozen chalices of wine they’d shoved into his hands. “These kingdoms are a weird place.”

  “And those brothers! Mmm,” Turee said from his right.

  Gunnar sighed, and Turee smiled at his discomfort.

  “Please tell me it was only one of them,” Gunnar said.

  “Of course! What kind of girl do you think I am?” the teenager replied. “Most of them wouldn’t break their oath; said they couldn’t touch me because I wasn’t a ‘sister’. Fools.”

  Gunnar whispered something in Langal.

  “Hey! Hey, I, I’m learning your language s-so you better enjoy that now, ’cause I’ll know when you’re making fun of me soon!” the teenager fumed.

  “It wasn’t anything bad,” Kamith said.

  “And it’s not like the whole of the monastery didn’t know why you two slipped out early!” Turee pressed.

  “That’s different,” Kamith said.

  “Oh? I don’t see a wedding pendant around your neck, Kam,” Turee pointed out. “What would the world say about such shocking behavior in a young woman?”

  “Enough,” Gunnar grumbled.

  He half expected Turee to continue on, that was her way, but the girl’s attention had been caught. A half-dozen men on horseback blocked the road in front of them. Four wore chain-mail and bright-yellow surcoats. They had shields and swords mounted on their saddles and spears in their hands. Two men in yellow-and-blue tunics, unarmored, sat atop horses in the middle. One held a great pennant, upon which sat a sword crossed with a scepter.

  “Greetings!” shouted one of the unarmored men, the one without the pennant. “I have heard that a warrior traveling with two young women killed the Reaper? Might you be that person?”

  “Depends who’s asking,” Gunnar replied.

  “I am Phaol,” said the man. “I am the herald of King Whenoc of Skar’gat. Fast riders have already reached the capital with news of the murderer’s death.”

  “It’s been less than a day,” Turee said.

  “Good news travels fast here,” Phaol declared, beaming. “I have been asked by King Whenoc to invite the slayer of the Reaper to the palace for a stay of relaxation and luxury, as a reward for his achievement. So, it is quite important for me to know, are you the westerner who did the deed?”

  Gunnar turned to Kamith and spoke in Langal.

  “Want to spend a few days in a palace?”

  “I’ve never seen one,” Kamith said. “What are they? Are they big?”

  Gunnar laughed to himself and turned to Turee. The girl vibrated with excitement, a huge smile on her face.

  “Guess that answers that,” Gunnar said to himself. He looked up at Phaol and nodded politely.

  “Myself and my woman did the deed, and we would be happy to visit your king.”

  The Palace of the Red Prince

  “What is that?” asked an astonished Kamith.

  “That’s a city,” Gunnar replied simply. Had he been saying it to anyone else, it would’ve been sarcastic, but not to Kamith. She had truly never seen what she now looked at before.

  Byhsta, capital of the Kingdom of Skar’gat, unfolded before them. Set amidst the low hills and ridges that dominated the kingdom, it rested atop a wide, mound-like hill that rose five hundred feet above the valley. It wasn’t the largest peak in the world, but it commanded the countryside.

  Spilling down its southern and south-eastern slopes lay the city. Buildings rose, packed close together, half built of stone, half of wood. They sat in meticulously ordered rows. Several domes, churches where the cults of the elements worshiped, towered above the two- and three-story structures that made up much of the town. Surrounding it all was a circuit wall, maybe thirty feet tall, studded with dozens of defensive towers and a half-dozen gates protected with protruding barbicans.

  Atop the mound rose a tall building, easily sixty feet high. From the outside, it looked like a castle, but from the sheer size of it, Gunnar could tell it was the palace. A separate wall, twice the height of the one surrounding the city, surrounded the palace and a large stretch of ground on the summit of the hill. A half-dozen other buildings clustered around the palace within the summit citadel.

  “A big town?” she figured.

  “Yeah,” Turee said, riding up. “You’ve never seen a city?”

  “No,” Kamith answered, still staring incredulously at the Skar’gat capital. “Never.”

  “Well, just remember, people in there aren’t much different than people out here,” Gunnar said.

  “Hah!” Turee laughed, riding forwards. She trailed Burden behind her on a long rein. The robust animal tromped slowly along, indifferent to their surroundings.

  Phaol, the king’s messenger, waved at the city.

  “Our great capital,” he informed them. “The heart of Skar’gat!”

  They rode on, approaching the city. The broad hill on which Byhsta sat rose above a valley that ran east to west. The floor and slopes of the long valley were clear, with only small lines of trees separating the fields of farmers and ranchers. Islands of trees sat atop the hillsides which formed the valley’s sides. Dozens of smaller valleys, hollows, and ravines debouched into this main valley from the north and south, each lined with dirt roads and small villages.

  This was truly the heart of Skar’gat. They had passed a handful of large villages in the valley as they rode, all culminating in the capital on the hill.

  At the gate, Kamith paused, staring at the massive stone fortifications. Each gate was truly two successive gates, thanks to the protruding barbicans protecting each entrance to the city. They rode through the first, beneath flanking towers, and found the road hemmed in by walls of stone on each side. Atop each, guards strolled lazily to and fro, watching them ride with minimal interest. Gunnar knew that they could, if they wanted, rain arrows down on anybody within the barbican.

  The second gate, again flanked by towers, lay open. The party stepped onto a wide central street that ran up the gradual rise of the hill towards the palace citadel above. Gunnar found it odd that the roads ran straight. Most cities had twisty, narrow roads, to confuse and slow any invading army that got past the walls, but from here to the gate of the citadel’s walls was a straight shot.

  Kamith had no such thoughts. She stared about, amazed. Byhsta bustled with life. People milled about on the streets, some socializing in knots, others dashing about, swerving and dodging to avoid people, horses, and the countless coaches that crowded the road. Men and women shouted in loud voices, telling people about the great price on candles up the street, or the new barrels of ale just in to the tavern on the corner, or the dozens of fat chickens somebody named ‘Dheniel’ was selling at the bazaar.

  They rode through the swirling hive slowly, as every few seconds some knot of people or horses would get in their way and force them to stop. Kamith continued staring, jaw agape. Turee smiled like a kid with a new toy, clearly back in her element. Gunnar just took in the surroundings, his mind soaking in details. Occasionally, a soldier would wander by. People would stop whisperi
ng, and women in low-cut bodices would move away quickly, often trailed a few steps later by their prospective clients. The law, Gunnar figured, watching the soldiers go. As he watched one such soldier walk, he noticed a pair of women in sea-blue robes following, nuns from the Sisters of the Wind. They seemed to be on the lookout and quickly spotted the prostitutes who scurried away from the soldiers. They hurried after them, no doubt to save their souls or something similar. That seemed odd to Gunnar, given the celebration they’d just thrown him after killing the Reaper. You’d have thought they and the prostitutes should have been exchanging tips, instead of engaging in some age-old moral struggle.

  He shrugged it off. They approached one of the great stone domes, looming fifty feet above the street. A level embankment had been built and shored up with heavy stones to support the weight of the dome. The dome itself was cut stone, covered in plaster and painted in an elaborate forest scene that wrapped around the whole of the building. Near the apex, several openings sat, allowing light to stream inside. A group of men in brown, woolen robes, all of them bald, loitered near the entrance.

  “Brothers of the Earth,” Phaol informed Gunnar, noticing his gaze.

  Gunnar nodded his thanks, not bothering to explain that he’d already met some, and they rode on. Having finally crossed the city, they approached the palace citadel.

  The king’s compound sat apart from the city, surrounded by its own wall that ran flush with, but loomed over, the walls surrounding the city. Thirty feet of open space lay before the inside of the city walls, a kill zone that palace archers could use to shoot down on anybody who had taken the city and wanted to storm the palace. The citadel walls, rising six stories above them, were well-manned. He could see a dozen soldiers standing over the gate, watching everything that passed.

  The gate into the citadel was not open at first, but its hinges creaked at their approach. The great door swung clear, revealing a tunnel, its interior illuminated by candles in sconces. They rode through it, actually passing under the city wall, and came to another door. This too opened after a moment, revealing a third door a few feet further back. Finally, this opened, revealing the broad bailey of the citadel.

  “By the Gods Above,” whispered Kamith.

  She stared up at the palace. Gunnar himself had the same thought. Built into the citadel wall itself, the palace loomed like a mountain in front of them. From the outside, it looked like a castle, with round towers on each of its five corners, each crowded with hoardings and lined with arrowslits. But the sheer size of the building meant that vast chambers lay inside, no doubt ornate in a way Kamith could not, at this moment, imagine. Turee’s smile widened. She had grown up in a place like this. She felt at home.

  They didn’t notice the half-dozen other buildings in the bailey, they just rode towards a series of broad steps, tiers really, that rose to a heavy-looking gate. A dozen servants waited at the foot of the stairs to take their horses.

  “They will be in the stable when you need them,” Phaol said, pointing to a long, wooden building built up against the inside of the high walls.

  “Thank you,” Gunnar replied. They unloaded their saddlebags and weapons, and then let the grooms lead the horses away.

  The doors to the palace swung open, revealing a central arcade two stories high. Two long rows of pillars divided the broad corridor into three passageways, a wide central one and two narrower paths on each side. A long stone pool lay in the center of the corridors, a trio of well-dressed young women sitting at its edge, chatting amongst themselves. They noticed the newcomers, laughed, and spoke beneath their breaths. Turee frowned, looking down at her plain leather chemise and pants.

  “Please follow me,” Phaol said. “I shall announce you to the king. He is eager to meet the man who slayed the Reaper.”

  The words caught the attention of the young girls, and a new respect filled their eyes. Gunnar nodded Phaol to lead them on.

  They moved down the corridor, passing entranceways that revealed vast chambers furnished in silks and cushions. Some held groups of women, talking, sewing, or listening to bards tell tales in their native tongue. Slaves darted about, at least two for every well-dressed noble. Many of the women were followed by large, handsome men who walked with their heads ducked in submission. Few of these men had shirts, revealing hairless chests covered in well-formed muscles. Gunnar didn’t have to guess what the noblewomen kept them for. Royal men were similarly orbited by servants, often female, all meek and docile. They waited on their masters’ every word.

  Gunnar felt a flash of revulsion. Yes, he’d seen slavery before, but he’d never truly grown comfortable with it. He’d been a servant before, after being taken from his village, but even then, he’d been paid. But to be owned, body and soul, by another? He just couldn’t identify with that. He didn’t know how a person could make peace with having no freedom, how they could just submit to it…

  Phaol showed them to a wide, stone, spiraling staircase halfway down the corridor. Made of white marble streaked through with swirling blue-gray impurities, it slowly arced around to the second level, opening on a wide central chamber buzzing with people. The stairwell kept going to upper levels, but Phaol motioned for them to step off.

  They were in the audience chamber, where the king held court. Running the whole length of the palace, the wide chamber was also two stories tall, with an arcing barrel-vault ceiling rising above them. A vast mural covered the whole of the ceiling, showing a king triumphantly leading a victory procession into a great city.

  The broad center of the room was open, but like the corridor below, an arcade of pillars separated the left and right sides of the chamber into smaller spaces. Men in ornate tunics and pants mixed with women in pastel-colored, linen dresses. All, both men and women, wore rings and pendants of gold and silver, many studded with rubies and sapphires and whatever expensive stone was in fashion. They parted at the approach of Phaol, a good many staring fixedly at Gunnar and his women. Did they know he’d killed the Reaper? Had the king announced it, or were they just confused over an armed and armored man walking up to the king? Or perhaps it was the armed and armored woman, Kamith, who caught their attention.

  At the far end of the room, a tiered dais rose. The first level had a half-dozen small thrones, filled by officials and relatives of the king. The second tier was six feet above the first and crowned by two ornately carved wooden thrones, each twice as tall as a man. Reliefs carved into the wood showed wolves chasing a moose through a forest, and a crowned hunter following on horseback, spear in hand. The throne on the left was empty. In the right sat Whenoc, King of Skar’gat.

  He wore no crown today, but the man’s presence screamed ‘King’. He was the only person who slouched or relaxed in the room, none of the other royals daring to be seen without straight backs and regal faces. But Whenoc had a leg kicked up over the arm of his chair and watched everything with a bemused expression. He was handsome enough, with blue eyes and black hair, though patches of gray appeared at his temples. He was a trim man, clearly keeping his body strong despite the luxuries and ease of his title. And he was watching them intently. He spoke something to Phaol in his own language.

  “Yes, sire,” Phaol replied in Trade Tongue. “I am afraid our champion does not know our language.”

  “A shame, but his quality is great all the same,” said Whenoc, switching to Trade Tongue. “You have rid us of a great evil, traveler. Might the court know your name?”

  “I am Gunnar of the Tarn,” he informed the king, then he turned to his companions. “This is Kamith of the Red Horse, and Turee.”

  “Tarn?” the king asked, either not noticing or not caring that Gunnar hadn’t called him ‘sire’ or ‘majesty’. “Where is that?”

  “Far to the west, beyond the Great Grasslands,” Gunnar explained. “I have been traveling east for some time.”

  “I imagine,” Whenoc said with a smile. “I offer you the chance to rest and recuperate, here, in my home. Anything you wi
sh, my servants will fulfill.” The king looked to a young man on one of the lower thrones. “What do you think, Prince Khireg? Is that a fitting reward for such a feat?”

  The young man nodded. Not much older than Turee, he had chestnut-brown hair and sad eyes. He hadn’t filled out much, but he carried his thin frame like a warrior nonetheless.

  “They deserve no less, sire,” Khireg agreed. “I should like to hear how you brought down the Reaper, Gunnar of the Tarn, once you have rested.”

  Gunnar nodded respectfully at the prince.

  “Thank you, King,” said Gunnar. “We are grateful for the hospitality.”

  “And all of Skar’gat is grateful for your blade,” the king proclaimed. “Phaol, show them to the guest quarters! And show them the grounds.”

  With that, the king’s attention shifted, and the court closed back into the center of the room, chatting and socializing as they had been. Phaol motioned for Gunnar to follow and led them away, into the palace.

  ***

  Turee floated easily on her back, lazily pushing herself through the water and singing in Starthi, her native tongue. They were in the basement of the palace, in the great baths that had been built for the amusement of the nobles. Heavy brick had been laid down over giant fires a floor below. The fire heated the brick, which heated the vast pool to nearly body temperature. Turee’s voice rose sweet and clear from the mists of the bath, but Gunnar didn’t understand a word of it. She kept saying the same foreign words over and over again in a happy, unending chorus.

  “What does that mean?” he asked in Trade Tongue, resting against the wall in the shallow end of the bath.

  “It means ‘I love decadence’,” she replied.

  Kamith told her how to pronounce the phrase in Langal. The girl listened half-heartedly and then tried to pronounce the words. She got perhaps half of them correct, but that seemed good enough to her. She floated off lazily, singing the new words, her accent thick and awkward.