Tales of the Far Wanderers

by David Welch

  “Come on,” Gunnar said to Kamith, and he ran to the stairs. They dashed down, following Whenoc. The king ran through the central hallway of the lowest level, past the decorative pools and shocked nobles. Gunnar and Kamith followed, but Whenoc’s flight stopped when he reached the door. A heavy metal bar had been lowered across it; a precaution should the rogues attacking the citadel gate actually break through. Whenoc pushed at it futilely. At least five men would’ve been needed to lift it.

  “Whenoc!” shouted Gunnar.

  The king turned, seeing Gunnar. He looked frantically for help. Finding no soldiers, he pulled his own sword from its scabbard.

  “I’ll make sure you two are alone,” Kamith whispered.

  She retreated a few steps and then turned to watch for guards. Gunnar stalked closer to the king, sword and shield ready. The king had no shield, but he watched with trained eyes, following Gunnar’s every move. The man had been a fighter at one time, and it showed in the swift movement of his feet.

  “Invite me to your house, betray me, and steal my women?” Gunnar asked coldly.

  “You brought this on yourself,” the king replied. “Travelling with a princess? Bringing her to my home? You think I would give up a princess of Starth to please some worthless drifter?”

  Gunnar laughed.

  “Drifter? Haven’t you heard? I’m the damned Reaper Slayer!”

  Whenoc charged, stabbing forwards with his sword, aiming for Gunnar’s head and neck. Gunnar blocked the blows with his shield and swept forwards with an underhand swing, slashing up at the man’s chest. Whenoc, unencumbered by armor, danced back out of the way of the blow.

  The king began circling again, but Gunnar didn’t follow. He simply pivoted in place, following the man without moving. With all his armor, he would tire before Whenoc, and Whenoc knew it.

  “Did you think I’d just let you take them?” Gunnar asked, eyes and sword never leaving the man.

  “In this kingdom, they are mine,” Whenoc declared. “You, your women, everything! I am King!”

  “There are no kings, Whenoc, only men with their heads up their ass,” Gunnar laughed. “And they die just as easily as any other.”

  “Impudent bastard,” seethed Whenoc. “I knew I didn’t like you from the first time you spoke. No respect for your betters. Is that why you’re wandering? Your king grew tired of you?”

  “I have no—”

  Whenoc leapt in as he spoke, dashing for Gunnar’s left side, trying to get past the shield and attack his ribs. Gunnar kept his feet planted for a split second, just enough to make the king think he could get away with it. Then, Gunnar’s left hand flashed to the side, whipping his shield into the king. The force of the blow knocked Whenoc off his feet, sending him tumbling to the ground.

  The man tried to get up, but Gunnar was on him, smashing the lower edge of his shield into the king’s sternum. A sickening crack filled the room as bones shattered beneath the blow. Gasping for breath, the king flopped to the ground, frantically clawing at the stone floor. Gunnar kicked his sword away.

  “I would kill a hundred kings to keep them safe!” Gunnar roared, kicking the man in the ribs. “I guess you’ll just have to be the first!”

  With that, he stabbed down, punching through Whenoc’s forehead and deep into his brain. The king’s struggles stopped, and his body relaxed. Gunnar spit on the corpse and jerked his blade free. He found Kamith, who had stood ready the whole time, but faced nobody. No more guards had come to save their king.

  “Didn’t sound that hard,” she said, gazing at the king’s body.

  “Wasn’t,” he replied.

  He walked up to her and kissed her softly.

  “You know you don’t have to try so hard,” she said.

  “Huh?”

  “Killing a king to rescue me? Overthrowing the government? I already love you, Gun; you don’t have to impress me,” she smirked.

  He laughed, saying, “Well, it wasn’t all for you. I mean, I was worried about Turee, a little bit.”

  “Oh, I see,” she said. “Mean old Uncle Gunnar’s got a soft spot now?”

  “Have to give the girl a break some time,” he said. “I mean, this one wasn’t even her fault!”

  “We better go find her,” Kamith said, heading for the stairs.

  “Yeah,” Gunnar sighed, “and tell her about Khireg.”

  Kamith’s grin faded.

  “You do that,” she said quietly. “I don’t think I can.”

  “Poor girl,” Gunnar muttered. “I think she actually liked him.”

  “She did,” Kamith said, remembering the young man’s actions just a few hours earlier. “She lost a good one. Skar’gat lost a good one.”

  ***

  They found Turee on the highest level of the palace, in the king’s bedchamber. Crushed, and seeing no way of escape, she sat docile as servants styled her hair, doused her in sweet-smelling oils, and pulled a green-and-yellow dress over her head.

  Gunnar stormed in, the servants scattering in terror. Turee shrieked and leapt, not recognizing him at first. When she did, her face melted in relief. She wrapped herself around him, crying uncontrollably.

  They made their way back to the throne room. At its edge, Turee stopped dead. Lying in the middle of the room was Khireg’s motionless body. The Red Prince stood over his brother’s still form, no words escaping his lips, muscles tense as he fought to control a wave of fury and grief.

  Turee did not have the prince’s control and once again broke into sobs. Kamith clutched the young woman’s body to hers in a tight embrace and led her slowly out of the throne room.

  Gunnar moved to Elhouan’s side, knowing all too well the grief the man must be feeling.

  “It is my fault,” Elhouan finally said.

  “No. He chose to fight,” said Gunnar.

  “Doesn’t make it feel any better,” said Elhouan.

  “Isn’t supposed to,” said Gunnar. “But you didn’t kill him. He chose to fight for you, and he died. Cruel as it is, that’s war.”

  “I knew people would die,” Elhouan said distantly, “but not him. He wasn’t supposed to.” Elhouan shook his head in despair. “It wasn’t worth it.”

  “You walk away from the throne, he died for nothing,” Gunnar stressed, though he doubted it would mean much.

  “All so I can stick ‘King’ in front of my name,” the Red Prince muttered.

  He stalked away, lost in his grief.

  ***

  Sunrise came and found them standing on the wall above the citadel gate. A mess of people waited in front of it, wondering what in the hells below was going on. The soldiers had emptied from their barracks and taken up positions in front of the gate, waiting for some word, but none had come. Sounds of fighting had echoed from the citadel, but nobody knew who or what remained inside.

  Surrounding the soldiers stood most of the city’s people. Many supported Elhouan and had tied red strips of linen around their arm to mark themselves. They clustered together away from the rest of the crowd.

  Gunnar stepped out onto the wall, Kamith and Turee following behind him. Then came Elhouan. A cheer went up from the multitudes when he was recognized. The soldiers remained silent, nervously watching the throngs that surrounded them.

  Elhouan motioned for calm. It took a few minutes for the crowd to quiet.

  “The usurper is dead!” he declared.

  Another cry went up. The soldiers looked more nervous, several drawing their weapons, standing ready. Elhouan motioned for calm again. It took twice as long this time.

  “He brought it on himself!” Elhouan shouted. “You all know I am the son of Ambhroas, and rightful heir to the throne of Skar’gat! But you do not know what Whenoc the Usurper did to his own guests!”

  Elhouan gestured at Gunnar, exaggerating the gesture so it was visible to all.

  “This is Gunnar the Reaper Slayer, the man who freed our lands of a murderer who had hunted and killed our friends and family for two years
! Whenoc invited him to the palace to thank him, but what thanks was given? Whenoc locked him out of the palace and kidnapped his women! So he could keep them as his whores! He betrays a hero so he can wet his shaft.”

  A dozen different roars went up, some of shock, some of disbelief, and a great many of anger. The citizens with the red strips started calling for death to all of Whenoc’s people. Other citizens started gravitating towards the red-clad ones, shocked by the prince’s words. Elhouan motioned for calm, but he knew it would be a while before the crowd quieted again.

  “Your turn,” Kamith whispered to Turee.

  Turee moved forwards, next to Elhouan. The Red Prince slung an arm around her shoulder.

  “Hear her own words!” he shouted a dozen times over, to be heard over the roar. The people settled, listening.

  “Go ahead,” Elhouan whispered.

  Turee cleared her throat.

  “It’s true!” she shouted, her voice scratchy from long bouts of tears, “He-he tried to take us—”

  She cracked, biting back the words and darting away. Kamith hugged her close again.

  “So hear me. I am King. Those who served Whenoc,” Elhouan said, focusing on the soldiers below, “can go. Raise not a sword against me, and I’ll forget your betrayal. There is no need to tear our lands apart with war. Whenoc is dead. Fighting for him now will not bring him back. Go home, and I give you my word, the king’s word, that you will not be harmed!”

  A soldier approached Elhouan with a bucket. The prince reached in, pulling Whenoc’s head out by the hair. He tossed it to the ground before the mob. The leading soldiers crowded around it. Murmurs ran through the crowd, soldier and citizen alike.

  Silence fell. Long moments passed, then soldiers began to drift away. Many of the commanders, wearing distinct yellow surcoats with the red sword-and-scepter emblem of Skar’gat, disappeared into the crowd. Some rank and file left, but most remained.

  “Those who remain, will you serve your king?” Elhouan shouted.

  “Hail the Lord of the Hills!” shouted a soldier. “Hail the Red King!”

  Another roar went up, long and pulsing as citizen and soldier alike shouted. It built into a crescendo, the air vibrating around them with the cries of the multitude.

  “I think they like you,” Gunnar said.

  “Yeah,” Elhouan said, disgusted with his words. “And it only cost me my brother.”

  ***

  Three miles east-northeast from Byhsta lay a plateau. At the northeastern edge of it, just before it fell to a valley below, rose nearly one hundred mounds of earth. Grass covered all, save one. King Elhouan of the Skar’gat stood before the fresh mound, staring at a bronze plaque which hand been sank an inch deep in the dirt.

  A dozen soldiers loitered nearby, along with an equal number of nobles. None dared mention that Khireg, being the son of a slave, had no right to be buried on the Height of Kings. None dared mentioned that, by the laws of Skar’gat, Khireg could not even be considered a prince. They just stood quietly and watched.

  “Dirt,” Elhouan muttered. “We’re all dirt.”

  The king turned, facing Gunnar. He stood nearby, holding the reins of Thief. Kamith and Turee were likewise standing in front of their horses. Burden was tied to a nearby tree.

  “You’ll be going?” Elhouan asked. “My offer still stands.”

  “Generous as it is, I must decline,” Gunnar replied.

  Elhouan nodded. He had offered Gunnar a position as a general in the army but had been refused. Instead, as a reward, Elhouan had allowed Gunnar to refill his coin pouches. He’d left Harmon with enough gold to last three lifetimes, but paying for the food, protection, and clothing of three people – and four horses – who seemed incapable of avoiding danger had taken its toll. Not only had Elhouan let him refill both his sacks of gold and silver, he’d given similar-sized pouches of each to Turee and Kamith. Now, they had enough money for nine lifetimes.

  “And you, Turee?” Elhouan asked. “My brother cared for you deeply. You will have a place of honor at the palace so long as I live. If you wish to stay —”

  “No,” Turee said quickly. “Thank you, but no. I couldn’t.”

  Elhouan saw the sadness in her eyes, knowing it all too well. He dug into a pocket in his cloak, removing a pendant. It was a silver sword-and-scepter sign hanging from a chain.

  “Should you change your mind, just show this to any soldier in the kingdom and they will bring you to the palace,” Elhouan said. “I am glad he knew you, for what it’s worth.”

  “Thank you,” Turee said, taking the pendant. She wiped a tear from her eye.

  “Kamith,” Elhouan said, nodding formally.

  “Elhouan,” she replied with a nod.

  He turned, heading for his horse. Gunnar watched him go, then he motioned Turee towards the barrow grave. Turee handed Majesty’s reins to him. She slipped forwards, a bouquet in her hands. They were only dandelions; she had plucked them during a stop, pried loose a link of chain-mail from her sleeve, and stuck the stems through. She placed them at the base of the barrow, beneath the plaque. She dropped to her knees, weeping for a few minutes. Gunnar turned his back, letting her have the moment. Kamith walked up next to him, her horse trailing behind.

  “If he had lived, would you have left her here?” she asked.

  “Not my call,” he said. “I’m not her father.”

  Kamith squeezed his shoulder.

  “We can go,” said a crestfallen voice. Turee had returned, and she looked to the ground to try and hide her tears.

  “Where to now?” Kamith asked.

  “East,” Gunnar said. “Always wanted to see a sea.”

  They climbed up on their horses and started towards the edge of the plateau.

  “Sounds fine,” Kamith said. “But no cities for a while.”

  “Yes, please,” said Turee. “No cities.”

  “Agreed,” replied Gunnar. They rode down the broad slope of the plateau, heading east beneath the midday sun.

  The Lands Between the Waters

  Kavhoet sat atop a bluff, fifty feet above the Sea of Kings. It was a small town of three dozen buildings surrounded by a simple palisade. It stood here only because, at the bottom of the bluff, a low, curving peninsula stretched six hundred yards into the cool waters of the Sea of Kings. Boats and ships lined the southern shore of the peninsula, protected on the inside of the curve. Steps had been cut into the bluff and lined in stone. Gunnar watched local men scramble up the steps with baskets and sacks filled with goods from the ship below. Captains flipped coins to them at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Weniho couldn’t have sent a worse day for sailing,” Turee griped from her horse. A gray, overcast sky hung over the vast, blue sea before them, drizzling intermittently.

  “Does it ever end?” Kamith asked from Turee’s side, shifting nervously on her horse.

  “Yes,” Turee replied with just a bit of smugness. “I saw it with my mother when I was a little girl. My father brought us along when he visited the Mancera. They said four days sail eastwards and you reach Emire or Keserec.”

  “Four days…” Gunnar said glumly. Four days at the mercy of whoever was on the ship, four days exposed to the elements on open water. He’d seen small lakes become treacherous when winds picked up. He couldn’t imagine what something this big could do.

  “You wanted to see it,” Turee reminded him.

  “Yeah,” Gunnar conceded. “I did. Let’s find a place to sleep.”

  They rode across a meadow outside the town. Other travelers had set up tents and made camp, most of them merchants either bringing goods to the ships or hauling them away. Gunnar didn’t bother to go into the village and look for an inn. The Kingdom of Lavnas generally didn’t have them; not inside the villages, at least. Around some bigger towns, they’d seen a few outside the walls, but Kavhoet was too small to have even that. When they had first crossed into Lavnas, they had avoided towns and cities, wary after their stay in the capi
tal of neighboring Skar’gat. But, as they’d made their way into Lavnas, they’d realized the locals trusted outsiders about as much as they trusted wolves. They put up with traders but employed countless middlemen to deal with them outside of the towns, away from their homes, as if worried they’d lay a curse on them. Gunnar wasn’t exactly sure why the people of Lavnas hated outsiders – maybe it was their religion or something like that – but he didn’t particularly care, either. He was about to leave, and he’d hopefully find a less suspicious country to travel in.

  They threw up the tents near a small birch tree, tying up the horses on its lower branches. Before long, Kamith had a fire going. She roasted a deer haunch over it, the last of a doe she’d shot and salted three weeks before. Gunnar made sure their packhorse, Burden, was unloaded, and that their gold was safely hidden, since they had more than enough to make them a target. Luckily, they had so few nice belongings that few ever tried. People with the type of money he had usually travelled with an entourage and armed knights, not living out of saddlebags and trailing a single packhorse.

  Once that was taken care of, he removed his longbow. He picked out a birch tree, walked a hundred paces back, and drew an arrow. He fired and missed the tree by an inch.

  “Better,” he heard Kamith say. A few weeks ago, it would have been six inches.

  He drew again and hit. The arrow shot forward at blinding speed and drove two inches into the tree. He rattled off six more shots, his back and shoulders aching more and more with each arrow.

  “Impressive,” a voice shouted in Trade Tongue.

  He turned and saw a well-dressed man on a white horse with a grayish mane. The man had a sword on his belt but wore no armor. Gunnar could tell he was a warrior from the broad shoulders and chest. Black hair ran freely to his shoulders, and a short beard clung to his face. Two other armed men sat on horses behind him.

  “Thank you,” Gunnar said warily. Behind him, Turee and Kamith appeared, Kamith with her sword at her side.