Tales of the Far Wanderers

by David Welch

  “No,” Abiech said sadly, a distant look coming to his eyes. “She’s in Emire, watching our daughter and working on Eitell’s estate.”

  “You know, if you do this, you’ll never see her again,” Gunnar said gravely.

  Abiech was silent for a long moment, then he nodded weakly.

  “I am bound by my word,” he stressed. “She will be provided for. Eitell is our lord. Lords look after their warriors, even after death.”

  “But will his heirs?” Gunnar asked.

  “If they want the people to obey and not run them out of town, yes,” said Abiech.

  “That’s a big ‘if’,” Gunnar replied.

  “Maybe so, but I will either live with honor or won’t live at all. If you were in Eitell’s shoes, would you do any different?” Abiech asked.

  Gunnar sighed and glanced over at Kamith. She wore the same expression as he did. They had both been in Eitell’s shoes, and they had both managed to survive and rescue the ones they loved.

  “Probably not,” he admitted.

  ***

  They pulled up to an empty stretch of shore. A ribbon of beach, maybe sixty yards wide, ran from the blue of the sea to a thick, green wall of conifers. The ship anchored ten yards from shore. The first hour was spent getting ramps up against the side of the ship, then dragging reluctant horses down them and into the shallows.

  Gunnar was shocked that nobody had shown up yet. He didn’t know how long Eitell’s anonymity would last. They’d passed no Gethori ships on the way up, and seen no villages or settlements of any kind when they’d approached land, so maybe, for the moment at least, the raiders had no idea they were here.

  That was good for him, but it did little to alter Eitell’s fate. The half-dozen women that had escaped the raiders remained on the ship, many of them watching as their husbands and lovers prepared for battle. Eitell and his twenty-six followers were on shore, pulling on armor and weapons. All wore chain-mail and carried kite-shaped shields, each of which bore the image of a white-tailed buck. Most carried swords, though some bore double-sided axes. They had their horses loaded with small packs of food, but for the most part would be travelling light.

  Gunnar and Kamith had pulled their own armor on. He knew it would slow down the horses, but he figured it was worth it if these Gethori really did attack strangers on sight. Turee stood to the side of Majesty, nervously shifting from one foot to the other.

  “We should go, now,” she said for the tenth time.

  Gunnar tied the last pack onto Burden and tossed the packhorse’s lead to Turee.

  “We’re going,” he said.

  “How can you sound so relaxed?” she asked anxiously. “We just snuck into the lands of the people who tried to kidnap and enslave us!”

  “Panic does nothing,” Gunnar replied. “Saddle up and let’s go.”

  They got up on their horses and moved to head east. Gunnar paused for a second, locking eyes with Eitell. The lord sat atop a black stallion. The two men said nothing for a long moment.

  “May the Gods Above be with you,” Gunnar finally said.

  Eitell nodded.

  “And the Sky Father with you.”

  They rode past each other, nodding their respect. Then Gunnar pulled away. The two groups broke, each disappearing into the forest.

  ***

  Gunnar had grown up in a forest, but not one like this. Amongst the great peaks of the Spine of the World, the forests were more open, with sparse undergrowth and meadows breaking up the trees.

  Here, in the Land between the Waters, the forest didn’t stop. It carpeted the land in green, and the brush underfoot grew thick despite little sun reaching the forest floor. Ancient pines and hemlocks towered overhead, some with trunks as wide as a man was tall. Smaller maples, taking advantage of whatever light came though, formed a thick understory. The sky and the sun were vague patches of blue and yellow seen between branches that rustled in the light breeze. They only managed to keep their eastern heading by keeping in sight of the sea on their right.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this,” Kamith whispered. “It’s thicker than the woods of the Duahr.”

  “Water on two sides,” Gunnar figured. “Lusher than inland.”

  “I don’t like it,” Kamith grumbled. Gunnar had known she wouldn’t.

  “People could be hiding anywhere,” he agreed.

  “All the more reason to keep going,” Turee remarked.

  They had ridden east another half-hour when they heard the twig snap. Gunnar and Kamith turned their heads simultaneously, staring off into the deep forest in the direction of the sound, neither stopping their horses. Kamith had her bow out and ready. Gunnar readied his smaller bow, but he saw only forest, endless in its reach. Besides the flutter of squirrels and birds, he saw nothing.

  “I don’t see anything,” Turee whispered.

  “Doesn’t mean it isn’t there,” Gunnar replied.

  Ten minutes later, the second snap came, then the third, then a cascade of them. Footsteps, Gunnar realized. They halted, looking across the deep forest. A small rise stood a hundred yards north, in the direction of the sounds. Behind them lay another, half the distance away. Gunnar pointed to that rise.

  “Turee, take Burden and get behind that knoll,” he ordered.

  “What?” Turee asked, fear quavering her voice.

  “Go behind the knoll. If we don’t come back, ride east and don’t step, not even to sleep. Go!”

  The young woman took off, dragging the packhorse behind her. Gunnar motioned Kamith to follow, and they rode to the far rise. Just beneath its crest Gunnar dismounted, pulling his sword and shield.

  “Hard to shoot any distance in woods like this,” he said. “Need you to do circuits around me and whoever’s coming, shoot them up close from behind, make ’em think there’s more of us.”

  “Right,” Kamith said simply. “You sure you want to be on foot?”

  “For now,” Gunnar replied. “If something happens to me…”

  “Find Turee and go east,” Kamith finished, then she bit her lip. “But you’re not going to get yourself killed. Got it?”

  The footsteps grew louder. They could see bush shaking in the distance, a vague figure behind it, crashing forwards.

  “Gunnar?” Kamith pushed.

  “Yeah,” Gunnar said. “No dying today.”

  “Good,” she said, kicking Dash into action. She disappeared behind some trees to his left. He quickly looped Thief’s halter around a nearby branch and then dashed behind the huge trunk of a white pine. He steeled himself for what was to come.

  He peered around the side of the tree. A figure broke through the undergrowth, half carried by a smaller one. A few steps later, Gunnar could recognize them. Abiech struggled, supported by a young woman with snow-white hair and gray eyes. A gash had been hacked into Abiech’s left side, cutting into his stomach. Blood seeped from the wound, staining the leather pants below. A lot of blood. Gunnar realized instantly that Abiech was not long for this world.

  Bushes rustled behind them, a half-dozen figures emerging from the forest. Abiech and his female friend were running up the rise, towards him, unaware of his presence. He let them limp past. They screeched to a stop at the top of the rise, seeing his horse a few yards back.

  “Keep going,” Gunnar whispered.

  Recognition flared in Abiech’s eyes. He mumbled something in his own language to the woman. She moved to argue, so he repeated it more forcefully. Finally, she nodded and dropped him. Abiech managed to break his fall with one hand, the other still grasping a straight sword.

  The pursuers reached the bottom of the rise, and Gunnar could finally get a good look. They were squat men, with blond hair almost as light as the woman’s. Two had chain-mail, the rest wore leather. Half of them had huge, two-handed axes. The others had swords and round shields. Grime and blood covered them, signs of bloody work already done that day.

  They closed on Abiech, readying their weapons. A swish
cut through the air, followed by a scream. One of the axemen pitched forwards, an arrow protruding from his back. Blood frothed from his mouth as he hit the ground. Behind him, Gunnar saw the flash of Kamith on Dash, then she vanished behind a thicket of birch.

  The five remaining men stopped, heads darting this way and that, scanning their surroundings. The man on the ground stopped moving, his great axe falling at his side. They grumbled in their own tongue, a guttural language unlike anything Gunnar had ever heard.

  Abruptly, Abiech lurched to his feet and charged, screaming defiantly as he limped forwards. Gunnar cursed and jumped out, rushing the enemy. Shock registered in their eyes, both at the half-dead Abiech and the fully armed stranger attacking while outnumbered.

  Another arrow flew in, ripping into the back of a man, piercing chain-mail and skin. The man’s armor held though, slowing the arrow, preventing a lethal hit. Another shouted orders, pointing to two men and then back towards the forest where Kamith circled.

  Gunnar singled him out as the leader and smashed into him with all his force. The metal boss of his shield splintered the top of the man’s shield, the impact sending him backwards.

  Instantly, the Gethori were on him, and Gunnar broke off his assault on the leader. An axe blade came down on his left. His shield shot up and he ducked under it, taking the blow of the heavy metal boss. The shield reverberated from the force, but his shield arm held. His sword arm shot forwards, jabbing deep into the axeman’s thigh, crunching through bone and muscle. The axeman screamed, blood pouring from the wound.

  A swordsman rushed in from his right as he pulled back his sword, and an axeman came charging from his left. Gunnar gave ground, his shield hammered again and again by axe blows, nearly splitting. He parried the sword with his right hand, retreating until he felt his back strike a tree. Instinctively, he ducked left, circling behind the trunk. The axe came down, missing him by a hair, burying its huge head in the soft pine.

  Gunnar charged around the trunk at the swordsman, refocusing all his attention as the axeman struggled to free his weapon. Another swordsman lay dead nearby, an arrow protruding from his neck. Abiech fought gamely with the leader, who was slowed by his injury.

  The swordsman anticipated Gunnar’s attack and lifted his sword to chop down on his helmet. Gunnar slid to the right, lifting his shield to block the blow. The man’s chop hit the metal rim with a hard clang and bounced off. Gunnar weathered the blow and hacked in with his sword, right into the man’s exposed side. His blade cut up, biting clean through the hardened leather strips of the man’s tunic, ripping into his intestines. The man screamed and went down, clinging to life.

  Gunnar had no time to finish him though, as the axeman had torn his axe free and charged. The great weapon swung in impossibly quick arcs. He parried the blows with his shield, the great force of the attack cutting deep gouges into the wood, throwing splinters every which way. The impact and the attacker’s sheer momentum drove him back a half-dozen steps.

  The axe came down, and Gunnar slid right again, pivoting as he did. The axe hit his shield and his sword came down, cleaving the axe’s handle in two. The great weapon fell to the ground, useless.

  Before the axeman could appreciate the danger of his new situation, Gunnar whipped back with his sword arm, smashing the heavy pommel into the man’s mouth. Blood and teeth streamed from it as the axeman roared in pain. Gunnar thrust forth and skewered him, silencing his bellows.

  Spinning, Gunnar fixed on the last attacker: the leader. He stood over Abiech, about to thrust down with his sword. Out of the forest, another arrow flew in, hitting his left side, punching through his armor and lodging between his ribs. The force of the shot staggered the man, knocking his sideways. Gunnar charged in, swinging his heavy shield across his body. The leader raised his shield to take the blow, and the boss of Gunnar’s shield hit hard, shattering the leader’s already damaged shield. Driven to his knee by the attack, the leader swung blindly with his sword, a weak blow bouncing harmlessly off the steel of Gunnar’s grieves. As he struggled to get to his feet, a commotion arose behind him. He turned to see Kamith on horseback, a curved, slashing sword in hand.

  But she didn’t kill him; she didn’t even strike. In the instant the fool turned his back, Gunnar stabbed forwards, breaking through chain-mail and leather alike. The man went limp, crumpling to the ground the moment Gunnar withdrew his blade.

  Turning, he spotted Turee and the mystery woman. Their heads popped up from behind the far rise, worried faces looking on to make sure it was over. Gunnar waved them out of hiding then crouched over Abiech.

  The man struggled for breath. Two new gashes had been hacked in his left arm, both to the bone. Blood continued to seep out of his chest wound. He was too weak to even lift his head.

  “Go,” he croaked. “Take Suhngiu and… go…”

  “What happened?” Gunnar asked, crouching beside the man.

  “Found them,” Abiech wheezed with the faintest trace of a smile. “Fought. Killed at least sixty of ’em… but so many. Only a few were rescued… they rode us down. Eitell fell, I took Suhngiu. Hurt bad, though…”

  “Yeah,” Gunnar said uneasily, looking down at the wound.

  “I know,” Abiech wheezed. “Get her east. More coming.”

  “More?” Gunnar asked warily.

  “Many… more…” Abiech mumbled. His eyes closed and his head fell back, his breathing slowly tapering off to nothing.

  Gunnar rose to his feet. Kamith loitered nearby, bow in hand and ready, head cocked and listening for the slightest sound. Gunnar stalked over to Suhngiu.

  “You’re riding with Turee,” Gunnar said, pointing to the teen.

  Suhngiu’s delicate brow furrowed in confusion. She shrugged her shoulders helplessly.

  “You don’t speak Trade Tongue, do you?” Gunnar asked.

  She shook her head, saying, “Trade… no.”

  Gunnar turned to Turee.

  “Do you know any languages other than Starthi?” he asked.

  “Only Trade and your language, what you’ve taught me,” Turee replied.

  “Great,” Gunnar mumbled. He poked a finger at Suhngiu, then he pointed at Turee, then he pointed at her horse, Majesty. The woman nodded her understanding and scampered for the horse.

  “Can Majesty carry us both?” Turee asked uneasily.

  “The two of you together don’t outweigh me,” Gunnar pointed out. “Your horse will be fine.”

  Another twig snapped, faint and distant.

  “Let’s go,” Gunnar said, retrieving Thief from his spot. He mounted up and dug his own horsebow from its pack.

  “No stopping,” Kamith advised, riding beside him. “They’re not far from us.”

  “Agreed,” said Gunnar. “Y’ah!”

  Thief bolted forward, deeper into the forest.

  ***

  “We have to stop,” Gunnar said.

  It was dark. Even the moon, bright and full, had trouble getting any light into the forest. Seeing what was ahead of them was nearly impossible. The horses, along with their riders, were exhausted. They’d been riding for the whole of the day, having stumbled upon Suhngiu and Abiech only a few hours after sun-up.

  “If they’re following—” Kamith began.

  “I know,” Gunnar said. “But the horses are giving out, and none of us will be any good exhausted.”

  “What if they find us while we sleep?” Turee demanded.

  “Don’t worry,” Gunnar said. “I have an idea.”

  ***

  Eynfles Wolf-Killer, warband leader and ship owner, sat on his horse, peering through the darkness. His men rode behind him, slowly, struggling to see branches and brush in front of them. Most had wanted to put up for the night and continue tomorrow, but Eynfles had ordered them to ride on, so they rode. They all had visions of gold, calculating their cut of the woman’s value. They also had rage in their hearts. They had watched the southlanders, the same ones they called soft around campfires, come in
to their land and slaughter dozens of their friends. They had seen the slaves they’d taken die in the fighting, seen the money evaporate. Their land and their livelihoods, all defiled by suicidal outsiders.

  Eynfles himself could taste the bitterness of it. He’d been hoping to make a profit. If he recaptured the nobleman’s wife, he might break even, if nothing else went wrong, but that still wouldn’t make it worthwhile. On top of losing money, he’d also lost followers. In the battle, he’d seen eight of his men cut down, getting off far lighter than the other warlords with him in the column. But then, he’d taken off after the escapees. Of the eighteen men he’d chosen to run them down, only twelve remained. The one surviving southlander warrior had somehow managed to kill a half-dozen people before dying.

  In truth, Eynfles was pretty sure he hadn’t done it alone. They’d found no bow on the man’s body, but they had found arrows amongst the dead. So somebody else had escaped and was now trying to flee with their prize. If Eynfles captured them alive, he might be able to get a few more pieces of gold out of all this.

  “Lord,” whispered the man behind him, pointing into the distance.

  Eynfles peered into the darkness, seeing nothing at first. Then, a distant flicker emerged, so faint he wasn’t sure if he actually saw it. Cautiously, he moved in that direction, seeing the flicker a few more times. It was north of the path they’d been following, down a shallow ravine with a creek at the bottom.

  Ten minutes of bushwhacking followed, the flicker becoming a pinpoint of light: a fire. Eynfles paused behind a copse of hemlock trees, ordering his men to dismount and fan out. Drawing his sword and shield, he crept silently through the night. Over a decade of raiding and battle had made him good at it, and he made little noise as he carefully placed each step.

  The only side effect was that it was a slow advance, with each step probing the ground tentatively for sticks or leaves before truly coming down. Ten minutes into the stalk, he had the distinct feeling that something wasn’t right. He could see the orange glow of the fire, and hear the cracks and pops of burning wood, but he didn’t hear anything else. Nobody spoke to each other, nobody drew breaths as they slept, and the horses made no sound. A cold feeling came over him.