Tales of the Far Wanderers

by David Welch

  “That’s a bow from the northlands, isn’t it?” the man asked. “I’ve heard of them but never seen one.”

  “It is,” Gunnar said carefully. “Who is it that asks?”

  The two men perked up, irritation on their faces. So I’m dealing with a noble, Gunnar thought. Nobody else would find basic questions that impudent.

  “Lord Eitell,” the man replied, jumping from his horse. “Of Emire.”

  “We’re headed that way,” Gunnar replied.

  “Ah. Have you found a ship yet?” Eitell asked.

  “Not yet,” Gunnar said.

  “Then you shall come with us,” Eitell declared. “There is plenty of room aboard the West Wind.”

  Gunnar paused, unsure. Years of travel had built a healthy suspicion of things too good to be true. He’d just met the man, and he was being offered a spot on his ship?

  “Do not fear, sir,” Eitell continued with a smile. “I only wish to know about your travels. Somebody who has been up in the northern lands must have great tales to tell, and there is little else to do on a ship. I bear you no ill will.”

  Gunnar looked uneasily at Kamith, whose face had stiffened into a stern visage of unease. Turee stood a few steps behind, smiling politely. Her eyes told a different story.

  “I must respectfully decline,” Gunnar said. “I thank you for the offer, but my women are from the Far West. Their people have no royalty, so subservience doesn’t come naturally to them.”

  “Oh? I have not heard of such a place,” Eitell said excitedly, smiling like a kid who’d learned some secret only older children were supposed to know.

  “Yes, well, from the looks of your men, they already don’t think I’m showing proper respect, and these two make me look like a cowed manservant,” Gunnar said, gesturing to the women. “So we must decline.”

  Eitell’s smile vanished. He nodded his acceptance.

  “As you wish,” he said, then he smirked. “It’s rare I run into someone who speaks to me as an equal.” His men stirred at this, hands tightening on their reins. “A shame, but know I had no hidden designs. I truly did only wish to hear of your journeys. Ah well, be safe in your travels, man of the west.”

  “Be safe in yours,” Gunnar replied.

  The lord nodded crisply and rode off, his men following close behind. Gunnar watched him go, disappearing into a camp of a half-dozen large tents two hundred yards away.

  “He seemed nicer than the last noble who wanted to meet us,” Gunnar remarked.

  “They all seem nice,” Kamith grumbled.

  “Until they try and rape you,” Turee added.

  The women broke and went back to their tents. Gunnar sighed and nocked another arrow.

  ***

  Kamith was loading the last packs onto Burden when a scream echoed across the land. It was a woman’s cry, distant. Gunnar shot to his feet, his hand on his blade. They were packed, ready to go down to the docks and find a ship to take them east.

  “There!” Turee said, pointing to a knoll a hundred yards away. The small shape of a woman clad in a dress, sprinting frantically, came into view. She dashed on desperately, screaming as she ran.

  “What in the cold hells?” Gunnar muttered.

  A dozen figures appeared above the knoll. They were men, armed men. Each had a sword and shield, their bodies covered in chain-mail or thick leather. They chased after the woman, slowed by the weight of their arms. The woman tripped on a burrow and went down, and she was soon set upon by her pursuers. Gunnar didn’t wait to see what would happen; he knew all too well the awful fate awaiting the poor woman.

  “We’re going,” Gunnar said, darting over to Thief. He jumped up on the horse. Kamith and Turee each took to theirs. Kamith immediately drew her bow from her saddlebags, readying it.

  Gunnar had just grabbed his reins when a second group of raiders appeared, then a third, then a fourth. Each was at least ten men large. They closed in on the town and docks, forming a crescent around the area to prevent escape. Some ran into the camps of the traders, their entries followed by screams and cries. Men stumbled out in their bedclothes, slashed and hacked by swords and axes. Raiders emerged from tents with victorious bellows, holding decapitated heads by the hair, blood and gore dripping underneath. Others dragged out shrieking women, lashing leather straps around their wrists. Some were just thrown on the ground, their clothing ripped away from their bodies as their attackers violated them right there on the grassy meadow.

  Slavers, Gunnar realized, and he looked back to Kamith and Turee. They saw the same thing. Kamith’s face hardened into a look of defiance. He knew well enough that she’d go down fighting. Turee tried to hide her fear, but it still flowed from the girl. She shifted nervously on her horse, her hand constantly going from the halter to the shortsword at her belt. He hadn’t had time to teach her all that much about fighting. It was all too easy to image one of the raiders knocking that sword out of her hands then taking her as a plaything.

  “Come on!” he shouted angrily, spurring his horse on. They sprinted south for about a hundred paces then pulled up to a sudden halt. Two more groups appeared on the meadow from that direction, roaring in their own tongue, banging their swords against their shields as they charged.

  “Gods damn them,” he grumbled, pulling his horse around. He dug his heels into Thief and took off, heading for the docks. People scrambled about, some desperately racing for the walls of Kavhoet, but the gates to the town were already closed and the walls lined with bowmen. Those inside made no move to help the people outside, be they foreigners or locals working the dock. Three groups of raiders closed on the town, slaughtering those trapped outside. They stayed back from the palisade though, to stay safe from the defenders above. Gunnar knew they had no intention of storming the town or attempting a siege. This was a raid, and the traders outside the town had more than enough wealth to make it worth their while. They would go for the easy targets.

  Like us.

  Impatient, he pushed his horse over the edge of the bluff. People dashed down the stairs cut into the hill, desperate to reach the docks. Raiders reached the top of the stairs and fell upon the people, cutting them down in a whirlwind of slashing blows. Gunnar ignored it all, scrambling down the steep slope just south of the stairs, hacking through a small patch of trees. Branches whipped into his face, but he pressed on, riding onto the flat land of the small peninsula. Ahead, ships were throwing off their lines, pushing off from the natural pier with long poles. Sweeps extended from their sides, biting into the water and slowly pulling the vessels away.

  An arrow whizzed past his head, missing by a hair’s breadth. Behind him, he heard a familiar thwock as Kamith returned fire. He looked back just in time to see her arrow bury itself in a raider’s neck. The man collapsed to the ground, shock on his face. Looking back to the docks, Gunnar saw one ship still tied up, a large one with a huge, square sail bearing the image of a white-tailed buck. Its gangway was still extended. People dashed back and forth across its deck, shouting to each other and working on the lines.

  “Y’ah!” he cried, urging his horse on. Thundering hooves struck wet earth as they ran down the peninsula. They skidded to a stop by the gangway. Ignoring the shouts from the men on the ship, Gunnar turned Thief hard and galloped up the ramp, onto the deck. Kamith and Turee followed, the latter holding onto the reins of the packhorse with a white-knuckled grip.

  People shouted at him in a foreign language. He ignored them, dismounted, and pulled his longbow from Burden. He paced to the side of the ship, Kamith beside him with her bow. Behind him, men kicked the gangway from the ship, the long plank clattering on the muddy ground of the peninsula. The ship creaked and groaned as it pulled away.

  Raiders ran out onto the peninsula. Gunnar drew back and fired. The shot flew far, but it still missed. The raiders pressed on. He drew again and sent an arrow streaking for a man in a bearskin cloak. The arrow pierced the man’s chain-mail with ease, skewering a lung and sending him to the gr
ound. Kamith let loose beside him, pelting raiders with arrows in rapid succession. Her shortbow didn’t have the power of his greatbow. Two men in chain-mail went down from her shots then scrambled up, the arrows sticking from their chain-mail. She shot again, at a man in leather armor, and he went down with a shot through the heart. He did not get up.

  “Westerner!” a familiar voice cried.

  He spun, spotting the bearded face of Lord Eitell. The man had a haunted look to him, along with a long gash across his forehead. His tunic was soaked in blood. He clung stubbornly to a sword, and his eyes looked like those of the dead.

  “Looks like I’m taking you up on your offer,” Gunnar said gravely.

  Eitell took a moment to respond, the words registering slowly. He laughed sardonically.

  “I’m afraid we won’t be going to Emire just yet,” he rasped, pointing to the shore. “My camp.”

  Gunnar followed his finger, seeing the tents of his camp burning in the morning air. A line of women were being marched away from it, bound to each other at the neck by long ropes. Each had their hands tied together. Half were naked and bloody already. The raiders laughed and slapped their backsides with the flats of their swords.

  “They have my wife,” Eitell said, his voice hollow and slightly mad. “I have to get her back.”

  Gunnar frowned, looking back towards the shore. They were several hundred yards distant, now. Groups of raiders pushed their captives on, heading for a small cove a short ride north of the peninsula. There awaited two sleek ships, shaped like large canoes with pointed bows and tall, square sails. Squinting, Gunnar could make out bear heads mounted on the bows.

  “Looks like we’ll be drawing swords together,” the lord remarked, almost bemused by the prospect.

  Gunnar inched back from the man, unsure what the unstable lord would do next. Fortunately, Eitell merely stalked away, disappearing to a hatch that led below decks.

  “‘Get her back’?” Turee asked in a whisper, conscious of the dozen angry-looking warriors that wandered the deck. “Is he following them?”

  “Looks like,” Gunnar grumbled.

  “He’s gonna get everyone killed,” Turee squeaked. “Us too!”

  “Well, we could head back for shore,” Gunnar remarked sarcastically. Raiders still swarmed along the banks, loading plunder and new slaves into their ships.

  “So, instead of you dying and us being enslaved today, we get to put it off for a few weeks. Oh joy!” Turee seethed.

  She stormed off towards Burden, who several crew members had managed to get lying down. Kamith watched her go.

  “She’s right, Gun,” she said.

  “I know,” Gunnar replied with a sigh. “And I have no intention of joining Eitell for some suicidal rescue mission.”

  “Then what do we do?” Kamith asked.

  “I don’t know,” Gunnar grumbled. “I don’t know.”

  ***

  Eitell’s men managed to get the horses down a ramp and into the ship’s hold. The hold was a vast chamber, divided in two by a fence with a small gate. The bow held horses, both theirs and those of Eitell’s men. The stern held people, each staking out their own patch of floor.

  Gunnar’s stomach rebelled against it. He couldn’t shake the notion that he was moving. He didn’t suppose he should. Water never stopped moving, so why should the ship?

  “It’s easier to deal with on the deck,” a soldier said in Trade Tongue from a few feet to his left. “When your eyes see the movement, your stomach calms. Trust me.”

  Gunnar nodded his thanks to the man and made his way to a ladder. A short climb later, he was on the deck, hit by a cool, biting wind. The spray lashed him, chilling him, but the nausea began to fade. It seemed counterintuitive, being up amongst the wind and violence of the sea yet somehow feeling better. Strange place, the sea.

  “We’re not stopping,” he heard Eitell say. The lord paced up beside him, wrapped in a woolen cloak to ward off the chill. “We won’t stop to let you off. I’m sailing north until I reach the Land between the Waters.”

  “I thought you would,” Gunnar remarked, resigned.

  “I suppose you want to try and talk me out of this?” Eitell asked. “I’m sure a few of my men would, if they weren’t bound to me.”

  “You have twenty-six soldiers and a handful of women with you,” Gunnar pointed out. “The raiders had at least eight times that, from what I saw. God knows how many more are waiting in their homeland.”

  “You think it’s suicide?” Eitell asked.

  “It is,” Gunnar replied. “You don’t need me to tell you that.”

  “Funny,” Eitell remarked. “I heard a story in a tavern a few days back about some westerner who helped the Red Prince storm the palace and claim the throne of Skar’gat. Was that any less suicidal?”

  “Yes,” Gunnar replied, frowning. “The Red Prince knew the way into the palace and secured the walls from the start.”

  “Perhaps, but it was still a longshot,” Eitell replied. “You expect me to do anything less for my wife?”

  Gunnar grumbled, knowing from the conviction in his voice that the man truly loved his spouse.

  “Your men told me that the raiders are slavers,” Gunnar said. “That they captured women and children to sell. Couldn’t you buy her back?”

  “No,” Eitell said with a shake of his head. “They don’t sell to local kingdoms. They sell some to the forest lands north of the Sea of Winds, to the tribes there. A tribal chief keeping a woman from the Kingdoms as his whore brings a lot of status. Most slaves, they ship down the chain of seas, past the Thundering Falls to the kingdoms of the Far East, many months away. Such people are rarely seen again.”

  “And if you die in a futile attempt to get her back? What chance does she have to see you again then?” Gunnar countered.

  “I won’t let her become some savage’s whore,” Eitell growled.

  “They’ve probably already had their—”

  Eitell’s hand shot up, motioning him to silence.

  “I’m not a fool, Westerner,” Eitell seethed. “A few weeks of misery is bad enough. I will not let her suffer a lifetime of it.”

  Gunnar went quiet and stared out over the sea for a long moment.

  “I’m not joining you in this madness,” Gunnar said calmly.

  Eitell sighed and nodded.

  “I could force you to,” he said half-heartedly.

  “You could try,” Gunnar said with a shrug. “If I didn’t kill you, Kamith might, and Turee… well, Kamith might kill you.”

  “Your woman fights?” Eitell asked. “Maybe I should try to convince her.”

  “Good luck,” Gunnar laughed.

  He moved to walk off but felt a hand on his shoulder.

  “Westerner, when we reach land, go east,” Eitell said. “Four days’ hard ride will bring you to the Kingdom of the Three Waters, if you can stay hidden.”

  “Four days,” Gunnar said, his mind already spinning.

  “We’ll be following you, once we’ve rescued our women.”

  Gunnar held back from saying ‘if’ and just nodded. Eitell didn’t need to hear the words. The man’s face bore enough stress lines to tell anyone how desperate his plan truly was.

  “Well, guess we’ll see you there, then,” Gunnar managed.

  Eitell just nodded and stared north, towards his distant target.

  ***

  “I’m Abiech, by the way,” said a familiar voice in Trade Tongue.

  Gunnar focused on the warrior next to him in the hold, the same man who had told him to go above decks to get rid of his nausea. Abiech was not the tallest of people and had only a medium frame. Compared to most warriors he was something on the small side. Long brown hair streamed from his head, surrounding a long, clean-shaven face.

  “Gunnar.”

  Abiech nodded, saying, “You were the westerner Eitell met on shore?”

  “Yep.”

  “How far west?”

  “You hea
rd of the mountains on the far side of the Great Grass?” Gunnar asked.

  “I did not know the grasslands ended,” Abiech replied in a slightly bemused tone, as if chiding himself for not having realized his error sooner.

  “They do. I come from there. Took us most of a year to make our way this far east,” Gunnar replied.

  “Too bad your trip will end here,” Abiech grumbled.

  “I don’t plan on joining your little vendetta,” Gunnar pointed out.

  “Doesn’t matter. The Gethori will hunt you down. They don’t take kindly to outsiders,” Abiech explained.

  “The Gethori? That’s the name of those raiders?” Kamith asked from Gunnar’s side.

  Abiech’s eyes widened a bit at the sight of her. Abiech’s skin was the bronze so common along the Freshwater Seas, similar to Turee’s but a bit lighter. He’d probably never seen anyone like Kamith before.

  “Yes,” Abiech explained. “They raid the Sea of Kings and the Sea of Winds for slaves and plunder.”

  “Nobody’s gone in to try and stop them?” Kamith asked.

  “Oh, every few decades a king sends in an army, and they burn and pillage Gethori villages and kill thousands of them. But most take to the woods and wait until the kings leave, then they go right back to being bastards,” Abiech related. “But going in with anything less than two or three hundred men is just suicide.”

  Gunnar’s face hardened.

  “You don’t have anywhere near that number,” Gunnar noted. “And Eitell’s grief seems to overwhelm his reason.”

  “Eitell loves Suhngiu,” Abiech said with a resigned shrug. “More so than most.”

  “And you’ll go with him? Put your own life at risk for his love?” Kamith pushed.

  “I’m bound to him, by oath,” Abiech explained. “Before Eitell took me under his wing, I was a cowherd, a peasant. Come festival time, I joined a wrestling match and beat everyone, so he took me on, taught me how to fight proper. He gave me a house and fields of my own, even one of his serving maids for a wife. I owe the man everything.”

  “Was your wife among those taken?” Kamith asked.