Tales of the Far Wanderers

by David Welch

  “Once again, we’re seeing her naked,” Gunnar sighed as Turee drifted out of earshot. “You know, when I was a kid, all the magi told me that you’re only supposed to see your wife that way.”

  “My people did not mind so much,” Kamith said with a shrug.

  He supposed he shouldn’t be too hard on the girl, seeing as they were all naked. He and Kamith sat on stone steps in the shallower end. His love had stretched out along the steps, resting her head on the edge of the pool, soaking in every moment. She’d never been in a bath before; in fact, she’d never submerged herself in warm water, ever. She lay with her eyes closed and a contented smile on her face. His arm wrapped around her back, his hand idly stroking the skin of her taut stomach.

  “I love this bath, it’s huge!” Turee cried suddenly with unbounded enthusiasm. “Twice as big as the one we had in the palace back home!”

  She splashed for emphasis and then drifted back towards them in the shallows. Her breasts poked above the water. A familiar smile crossed her face as she settled in next to Gunnar, putting him between herself and Kamith.

  “No,” Gunnar said simply.

  “Come on,” she whispered into his ear. “I can’t get in trouble if you’re there for me…”

  “Turee, you know he’s going to say no,” Kamith said from her place, not bothering to open her eyes.

  “Bah! Fine,” she pouted. “Hey, servant!”

  An older looking slave paced up to the side of the bath with a towel on his arm.

  “Yes?” he asked.

  “Those men that the women have following them around, where can I get one?” she asked boldly.

  “Ah, uhm… One, uh, one minute, madam,” the slave stammered. He scampered out of the bath.

  “I think you scared him,” Kamith said.

  “You’re not serious?” Gunnar asked.

  “Why not? If the men here don’t seem to mind their wives having concubines, why shouldn’t I get one?” Turee reasoned.

  “Gods Above,” Gunnar muttered. He slipped beneath the water, her voice blurring into a gurgled buzz. He lay there for a long moment, until Kamith’s hand grabbed his shoulder. Surfacing, he took a deep breath and wiped water from his eyes.

  “Uh, Gun, you might want to take a look at this,” Kamith said.

  He turned, seeing the older slave had returned. He had with him a dozen people: eight men and four women. They stood tall, beautiful, and completely naked. Muscles honed from hours of focused exercise covered the men, while the women seemed not to have a speck of flab on them. All of them began flexing and posing, showing off their best assets. Across the pool, Turee whistled and licked her lips in anticipation.

  “Aw, don’t make me choose,” she said in a mock pout.

  “Gods,” Gunnar muttered again, and he slipped back under the water. Kamith joined him a few seconds later.

  ***

  “You think I should leave her here?”

  The bison hide rustled as Kamith turned to face her man.

  “What, Turee?” she asked.

  Gunnar stared up at the ceiling of the guest chambers, seeing nothing in the dark. They lay on a mattress stuffed with goose down, but had still spread one of their thick hides out. Amidst all the luxury, its rugged familiarity felt reassuring.

  “Well, she seems in her element,” Gunnar said. “She might be happier. I mean, that prince looked about her age, and she is a princess.”

  “Barely,” Kamith replied. “And you’re assuming Whenoc would let the two marry. Don’t powerful people marry for power and money and all that? What could a marriage to Turee do for them?”

  “I don’t know,” Gunnar admitted. “I was just thinking aloud.”

  “You really want to get rid of her?” Kamith asked cautiously.

  “No,” Gunnar replied, “but is she going to want to stay with us after this? Go back to living out of saddlebags and wandering through the world? Plus, she is of marrying age.”

  “I don’t think its marriage that’s on her mind right now,” Kamith replied, folding herself into him. She rested her head on his chest, draped a leg over his hips, and hugged him.

  “I don’t want to ruin her life,” Gunnar said. “Not if she has a chance for a real one.”

  “You’re not her father,” Kamith whispered, “even if it’s your instinct to act like one. She can make her own decisions.”

  “Can she?” Gunnar grumbled, his voice distant.

  “I know that tone,” Kamith said. “You don’t think she can.”

  “I couldn’t, not at sixteen,” Gunnar replied. “That was my first year as a warrior. We besieged a city of the Rulk kingdom for three months. When it fell and we rushed in, I had my way with anything female in the place. Didn’t even realize it was wrong. Didn’t even think about what I’d done until years later.”

  He felt one of her hands tighten around his shoulders.

  “Soldiers can do terrible things,” she said, knowing from experience. “Especially young and stupid ones. Turee isn’t a soldier.”

  “But she is young and stupid,” said Gunnar. “And father or not, I seem to be the one looking out for her.”

  “Well, I don’t want to leave her here,” Kamith remarked. “She’s like a sister.”

  “A sister who wants to sleep with your husband,” Gunnar grumbled.

  “My brother had two sisters as wives,” Kamith said with a shrug. “And I was a second wife. Do your people never marry more than one woman?”

  “It’s considered sacrilegious,” Gunnar said.

  “Really?” Kamith asked. Gunnar realized he had never actually explained his people’s many customs to her. He’d never seen a reason to. He didn’t plan on going back any time soon.

  “Yes,” he replied.

  “I’ve never heard of anything like that on the plains,” she said. “Is that why you only want me in your bed? To keep from upsetting the Gods Above?”

  “No,” Gunnar replied. “It’s because you’re the only woman here that I love.”

  She squeezed him tighter.

  “Baby, don’t talk like that now,” she chided. “You’ll get me all excited, and I really am tired.”

  “Fine,” Gunnar replied with over-the-top formality. “I’m afraid of burning for all eternity if I take more than one wife, so I guess I’m stuck with you.”

  “Mmm, thanks,” came the sleepy reply. “G’night.”

  ***

  “Aiee!” screamed Turee. She dropped the wooden practice sword and crouched low into a ball. Kamith stood over her, a practice sword in her hand, raised to strike down on the girl.

  “Turee, crouching and huddling like a baby won’t stop a sword,” Kamith said.

  “You were going to hit me!” the young woman shrieked.

  “You’re supposed to block with your sword,” Kamith spoke.

  “Oh… okay,” she said, straightening up. She grabbed her wooden sword in both hands. Kamith raised her sword again for an overhand blow. Turee flinched, flinging her sword up and waving frantically in an attempt to deflect the blow. Kamith sighed.

  “At least she stayed upright,” Gunnar said from his seat against the citadel wall.

  “I’ll get it!” snapped Turee. “Just—just don’t swing so hard. I’m new at this.”

  “Okay,” Kamith said with a sigh. “I’m going to swing down, and I want you to do a high block.”

  “What’s a high block?” Turee asked.

  “The move I’ve been showing you for the last half-hour,” Kamith replied.

  “Oh, okay!” said Turee, shifting herself into an approximation of a fighting stance.

  Kamith swung again, though a bit slower than normal. Turee’s blade came up at an angle to just above her head, wood hitting wood with a clack. The young woman grinned like an idiot at her success.

  “Congratulations, you’re now where I was when I was ten,” Gunnar shouted.

  She scowled, but Kamith quickly ordered her back to attention. They went through
the routine, again and again, each time Kamith’s blow coming faster. Turee’s block sped up as the move became muscle memory.

  “You teach a girl to fight?” asked a young voice.

  Gunnar spotted Prince Khireg approaching. Dressed in black, silk pants and a yellow tunic emblazoned with the Skar’gat sword-and-scepter design, he wore a sword at his side but no other weapon or armor.

  Gunnar answered, “In a city like this, women have the luxury of being defenseless. Out there, no.”

  “It does not come naturally to her,” the young prince said, settling next to him. “Though your own woman seems quite competent.”

  “She’s been shooting bows from horseback since she was a child,” Gunnar said. “Learning the sword was no problem for her.”

  “Aiee!” Turee shrieked as Kamith changed suddenly and came in from the side. Turee tried to bring her sword down, contorting her body oddly to get it into a blocking position. Kamith’s wooden sword hit lightly on the girl’s side.

  “Damnit!” Turee screamed. “You didn’t say you were going to do that!”

  “Enemies don’t generally tell you what they’re going to do,” Kamith replied, holding back a sarcastic laugh.

  Turee scowled, but then she spotted Khireg. A confident smile came to her lips at the sight of the handsome young man. Gunnar noticed the prince meeting her stare, returning the gaze with the boldness of a noble. Gunnar rolled his eyes. So that’s why he was here.

  Of course, if he does really like her, he could set up a life for her here, he mused, remembering his thoughts from the night before.

  “She is Starthi, yes?” the prince asked.

  “Once,” Gunnar replied.

  “How did she come to be with you?” Khireg pressed.

  Gunnar frowned, knowing he couldn’t tell the truth. Turee’s brother was still searching for her, and while Skar’gat was many days’ ride from Starth, you could never tell with royals.

  “Her village was raided,” lied Gunnar, reciting the practiced story they’d all agreed on should such a situation arise. “In a panic, she swam across the whole of the Mother River. We found her half dead on the western shore, and Kamith asked if we could help her. So we did.”

  “She did not wish to return to her people?” Khireg asked curiously.

  “She had no family left after the raid,” said Gunnar, “so she stayed with us. I meant to teach her to fight sooner, but you know how the road can be. One thing after another.”

  “Yes,” Khireg said, nodding. He was probably too young and sheltered to actually know what it was like to travel great distances. “Well, Gunnar of the Tarn, between killing the Reaper and taking pity on this girl, I can only conclude you are a decent person.”

  Gunnar supposed most people would consider that high praise coming from a prince. Gunnar just found it odd being complimented by a teenager.

  “Hopefully, you’ll get on your way before this place drives that from you,” the prince said bitterly.

  Gunnar cocked his head, looking at the young man.

  “Something I should know? Are we not safe here?” he asked.

  “It’s not that,” Khireg said with a wave. “You are safe. You’re no royal and no threat, so Whenoc has no reason to be anything less than truthful with you.”

  Abruptly, the prince got up and paced away, a cloud hanging over him. A shriek grabbed Gunnar’s attention, but it was only Turee.

  “Hey!” she shouted frantically. “You didn’t say anything about stabbing!”

  ***

  Four days into their stay, a festival took place. Phaol had explained that it celebrated a battle, four centuries earlier, when Skar’gat had won its independence from a collapsing empire. The city celebrated with feasting, processions, and public games just outside the city walls.

  Gunnar, Kamith, and Turee sat on those walls, watching the swirl below. Commoners crowded around a large rope circle that marked out an arena. Many people perched on bleachers that local carpenters had cobbled together over the previous weeks. Yet the king and his guests sat on dozens of small, wooden thrones that had been set up on the wall. Perched on the wooden hoarding that jutted out over the edge of the wall, they gazed down on a pulsing, vibrating crush of life.

  On the grassy arena, floor dancers swirled, clad in yellow and crimson robes and dresses. They spun and traced intricate spiral patterns around the field, moving to a throbbing drum beat that pounded relentlessly. Flutes accompanied it, along with a half-dozen women chanting in sonorous harmony. The dancers seemed unable to stand upright, flexing at their hips and forming long, straight lines with outstretched arms locked level with their shoulders. Kamith and Turee watched with rapt attention, their feet tapping unconsciously as they imagined themselves swirling about.

  The dancers ended, and a roar went up from the crowd. Turee sat back in her chair, turning to the man next to her. Khireg had managed to find himself in the chair next to hers, and the two had taken to flirting almost immediately.

  “They were so beautiful,” Turee said.

  “Yes, the sisters and brothers always put on a good show,” said Khireg. “Some time, you should stop by one of their temples and see them practice.”

  “I’d love that,” said Turee. “But I don’t know the way, I could get lost.”

  Khireg smiled a goofy grin and whispered something in her ear. Behind them stood Turee’s man-slave, who’d taken to spending nights in her chamber. If he was jealous of the prince’s attentions, he did not show it. He simply stood behind the chairs, translating the words of the speakers below into Trade Tongue so they could understand:

  “And now, for even on a day of celebration we must undertake serious tasks, I ask the guards to bring in the condemned!”

  A chorus of jeers arose from the crowd. Four men in chains were led in by soldiers. They were led to the center of the arena, where their manacles were chained to a heavy boulder.

  “Three men who murdered and one who raped,” said the slave as a speaker below boomed out the words in the Skar’gat language. “They are here today to face the vengeance of the aggrieved.”

  The speaker below was much more enthusiastic than the translating slave. Gunnar stared at the event, an uneasy feeling rising in his stomach. He had no doubt these men were murderers and rapists, but the spectacle of executions had always bothered him. He figured it was due to years at war. He had, for so long, expected to die fighting, as an equal resisting other equals. To be stripped of weapons and dignity, to have your final moments turned into entertainment? Perhaps the humiliation was part of the punishment, he didn’t know. He just didn’t like it.

  “May the fathers and sons of the wronged come forth,” the slave translated.

  A dozen men and boys came from the crowd. The guards gave each a bow and a quiver of arrows. Silence came over the crowd as the families of the victims nocked their bows. They stood barely ten feet from the criminals, so close even a blind man couldn’t miss.

  “Draw,” the slave said as a command was barked below.

  The men and their sons pulled back on their bows. Gunnar noticed one of the ‘boys’, the one standing in front of the rapist, had awfully feminine curves for a male. She wore the clothes of a man, so the crowd pretended not to notice.

  “Loose,” said the slave.

  The arrows shot forth, multiple shots puncturing the bodies of the condemned. The criminals fell to their knees, then to the ground, where they writhed and screamed and struggled for breath.

  The families ran forwards, knives drawn. A fury of slashing and stabbing followed as the men tore the criminals apart. The young woman dressed as a boy emerged from the crowd with a bloody piece of flesh in her hand: her rapist’s severed member. The crowd roared their approval.

  Their bloodlust sated, the fathers and brothers of the victims stalked away through a path cleared amongst the crowd. The bodies, slashed and torn, freed of eyes, ears, and tongues, were dragged away by the guards. A bloody smear was all that remained.<
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  “And now for the champions,” said the slave. “The best of Skar’gat come before you today.”

  More soldiers paraded out, surrounding the edge of the arena. They were dressed differently than the others, wearing robe-like gambesons of quilted wool and carrying wooden swords. Only their helmets were metal.

  “To settle a debt of honor, Azhel and Moughan shall fight until one is judged victorious,” the slave informed them.

  The two soldiers circled. Another man, in full armor but with no weapons, hovered nearby: the referee. Moughan was a weathered soldier with a scarred face and a heavyset disposition. He wasn’t particularly fat, but he loomed like a bear compared to his opponent. Azhel was thin and tall. Gunnar could not tell his age, because he wore a piece of silk over his face, revealing only his eyes, but he got the impression that he was a young man, just by the way he moved.

  Moughan rushed, swinging with his sword and thrusting forward with his shield. It was a blind and furious rush, the type that intimidated untrained men conscripted into fighting. But the smaller man leapt to his right seconds before impact, putting his shield up to shoulder the weight of Moughan’s shield. Azhel pivoted to the right and brought his sword down on Moughan’s back as he rushed by, the big man’s shield glancing off his opponent’s.

  The crowd roared with laughter, infuriating Moughan. He began hacking in heavy strokes, his wooden blade hammering hard on Azhel’s shield, beating it back towards his body. Azhel thrust forward with his sword, hitting Moughan’s knee with the blunted tip. The hard blow locked up the big man’s joint, arresting his momentum and the attack. Azhel threw his body behind his shield, hurling it forwards into Moughan’s. The big man stumbled back as the shield hit, the upper quarter slamming into his face. Blood streamed freely from Moughan as he fought to shake off cobwebs, but Azhel gave him no mercy. Darting forwards, he hacked hard at the man’s knee again, sending Moughan down to the ground. Another hack hit hard on the confused man’s helmet, knocking him sideways to the ground.

  The referee rushed in, waving the fight off. The confused Moughan fumbled around, desperately trying to get up and failing. Several of his comrades rushed in to keep him from hurting himself. They helped him limp away to the side as the bleacher’s echoed with the word ‘Azhel!’ Over and over again it rang. Men ran about the stands, collecting money from angry looking people who had clearly bet on the larger warrior.