Tales of the Far Wanderers

by David Welch

  And thanked her then in hushed tones, ‘For four sons given me.’

  Never to know a fifth would grow from that night’s loving deed.

  Then came the dawn where to his children, he went with heavy heart,

  Where even duty’s solemn call could scarcely make him part

  And morning came with wispy dawn and war drums on the air,

  And thousands fled the droning roar, put to flight and scare.

  But towards the pulse the footfalls fell, heavy, hard, and slow,

  And Herath marched in the king’s great host, to face the southern foe.

  All clad in mail and leather, went the soldiers of the king

  Boasting shields that shattered bone and swords to dance and sing,

  And on their heads great helms lay, each with an eagle feather,

  And in great ranks they pressed onwards, chanting altogether.

  The Three Waters’ cry, it rent the air, loud beneath the sun,

  Saying to the bold south-man ‘Seek death if you shall come!’

  And to a great and grassy field, by the name of ‘Etherden’,

  Strode Herath and the king’s great host, the world’s best fighting men.

  And far across, a hundred yards, arrived the first of them,

  The hordes of Manhar, armored all, with swords both long and slim.

  Came twenty thousand filing out and massed upon the clear;

  Three times the host Edelwur claimed, to stoke their dread and fear.

  And murmurs ran around Herath as the king’s men faced their doom.

  Strong arms quaked and legs shook as the cavalry rode in too.

  Herath looked upon his friends, and he saw the looming dread,

  So he pulled his sword and hollered loud to the men he led:

  ‘Hear the words once spoken to me by gods of the snow and cold!

  Hear the truth of a free man’s heart, our lives so dear are sold!

  Tis better to die beneath a blade than live beneath a whip.

  The dead are free in worlds beyond, while a slave must bow and tip.

  I’d rather see us lying still, all dead upon this field

  Than see a single man amongst us forced to beg and kneel!

  Our foe is great in numbers, yes, that all of us can see,

  So I ask but a single thing: who shall come with me?’

  And no cheer went up from the men, no cry for glory came,

  Until a man stepped forth without a word, then another did the same.

  Then great Edelwur’s heart pounded brave, his soul ran fiercely true,

  And he leapt forth to pull his sword and stride the morning dew.

  Then, in silence, chilled and still, the men of Three Waters ran,

  The enemy stunned by the gall that gripped the meager band.

  Herath’s feet with each step went yet faster towards the foe.

  In his heart, the battle song roared, until only death was sown.

  And like the waves upon the rocks, he crashed upon their spears.

  His sword swung and parried with the skill of fifteen bloody years.

  Three Waters crashed into the south, and filled the air with cries.

  The invaders shook with icy dread as men shouted, shrieked, and died.

  The battle joined, the forces fluxed, the clash so loud and grim,

  And Herath cut into the horde, his face a bloody grin.

  He found a horseman stuck and stopped, helpless in the press,

  And with a thrust he ran his sword through the man’s broad chest,

  And then a duke, clad in scales, charged him from the right,

  With singing blades the two men clashed, bound to wheel and fight.

  Then Herath’s shield leapt forward fast, and the duke’s face struck,

  And the royal swooned and stumbled back, and in him a blade sunk.

  Then Herath swatted aside a spear and hacked through bone and neck,

  And six strong men beneath him fell, the bodies reamed and wrecked.

  Came forth a man in blackened mail, six scalps upon his belt,

  And through his guts Herath’s blade struck, and to the earth he fell.

  Then came two more, Garivold’s guard, who parried and blocked, alack!

  The blows on Herath’s shield rang loud, and the great man was pushed back.

  Then, from his right came Edelwur’s roar, his foes fell back and quivered,

  And with the king, Herath pushed on, the foe’s shields cracked and shivered!

  Down went the guard, beneath their blades, to trod in muddy gloom,

  Then Great Garivold looked up and faced the swords of coming doom.

  He looked upon the face of Herath, and the king of Three Waters strong,

  His men from him in terror fled, he knew he had not long.

  And as the horde of Manhar cut and brought down the native host,

  They saw two of theirs for every death which they themselves could boast.

  But in the center not even numbers could blunt brave Herath’s drive,

  And before his blade the southland king knew his fate did lie.

  Edelwur from the left did strike, and Herath from the right,

  Through tempered steel their swords did stab, for flesh and bone to bite.

  And Garivold in agony screamed, and all his men it chilled,

  To see their king slump to the grass, gurgle, and lie still.

  A bloody blade Herath pulled free, and stared around to find

  How few of his brothers still stood and fought, amidst the battle’s grime.

  And with the king he shared a look, a knowing glance that told

  Of nothing more than two brave men, whose lives no foe would hold.

  Their blades cut deep, their shields struck hard, and no man knows how far

  Into the horde they cut their way, into the horde they charged.

  A dozen men beneath each fell, and a dozen more did moan

  From missing arms where brave men’s blades cut right through the bone.

  And under countless foreign swords, great King Edelwur went down.

  And Herath hewed through the endless horde, to stand over the crown.

  By the great king’s lifeless form, strong Herath made his stand,

  Eight more men would meet their fate from his swift sword hand.

  Then, finally, a spear struck deep, splitting mail and flesh.

  The Slayer, he plunged down to the earth, struggling for breath.

  On him came one final foe, to claim the glorious act,

  And with a swing, Herath’s last blow, right though his leg he hacked.

  Down went the man without a leg, and from it blood did gush,

  Then a dozen spears pierced Herath’s form, a dozen spears did rush.

  After he fell that final time, the southland men did pause,

  And glance upon the battlefield, to take stock of their loss.

  Across the grassy meadow, there lay thousands dead and gone,

  With countless painful wounded cries, their wails both sad and long.

  Not one man of Three Waters stood, nor shouted out in pain,

  Of the twenty thousand southern foes, nine hundred still remained.

  Bloodied, broken, and alone, the shocked survivors milled

  Until, shot from the nearby wood, an arrow flew and killed.

  From the forest gloom, there came a whooping cry; a woman’s shrill refrain.

  ‘To avenge our men, we all would die!’ a chilling voice proclaimed

  The arrows streaked, first one, then two, then more as wives drew near,

  And the caterwauls of the grieving loves filled south-men with fear.

  Then, to the south, they at last did flee, beating a hasty path,

  And following came the womenfolk, to bring down on them their wrath.

  And Herath’s love at the front did lead, with two sons almost grown,

  And to their belts by that day’s end, three scalps each were sown.

 
One by one, the south-men fell, ’til the Sea of Kings they struck,

  Where one man crossed to tell the tale, blessed by a dark god’s luck.

  And from that day, for sixty years, Manhar’s kings all told

  Their sons the bloody, awful end of the bold King Garivold.

  Upon their northern borders, they watched with woeful stares

  Telling kith and kin to stray not far, ‘For Herath’s sons live there.’”

  The stable went quiet, all eyes on young Merl. For a moment, he seemed in a trance, as if the poem hadn’t ended and he was still reciting the words of great men past. Then, he snapped to attention, taking a deep breath and fidgeting.

  “You recited all that from memory?” Kamith asked, impressed.

  “Ain’t just for the horses we keep him around,” Ailwur said. “Give that man a drink, Herv.”

  Herv passed the jug to him. Merl, still sweating the attention, tipped it up and drank deeply. Gunnar gave the kid an appreciative nod, and then he turned to Herv and Ailwur.

  “Is that story true?” he asked.

  “Why wouldn’t it be?” Ailwur demanded.

  “Just curious,” Gunnar said. “I’ve heard lots of tales about heroes. Most are a bit over the top, but that’s one of the few I’ve heard that could have actually happened.”

  “There have been fifteen kings since Edelwur,” said Herv, “though his dynasty no longer sits on the throne. There have been many wars since then.”

  Gunnar shrugged, saying, “A fine tale, regardless, and an impressive telling.”

  Merl finally put down the jug, his eyes swimming a little. Turee smiled at the boy and shifted closer to him; close enough to lean up against him. Merl seemed a bit surprised by the attention, despite their earlier encounter. Gunnar smiled at the sight. He’d seen enough Merls in the world to understand what even the slightest sign of compassion or acceptance could mean to them.

  “And now it’s up to me to top that,” Ailwur grumbled. “Or at least give it a try.”

  He crept forward from his seat of straw, sitting cross-legged before the two candles. He looked relaxed, no doubt feeling the mead.

  “I think I’ll take a different approach,” he announced. “There’s no use trying to tell you some tale of soldiers and glory and all that – I couldn’t remember a lyric to save my life – but I do remember some of the less boring tales that Herv has told me. I can’t let our guests ride out of Thelwul’s lands without telling them the epic story of ‘Wandering Osburu’.”

  Herv groaned and rolled his eyes.

  “No, no,” Ailwur continued. “If I’ve learned anything, it’s that the best stories are always the ones that only get told at taverns when it’s closer to sunrise than sunset. And it’s nothing you haven’t told in the past, my friend.”

  Herv glanced over to Kamith and Turee.

  “Figures that that’s the one he remembers. You might not want to hear this tale. It’s a bit bawdy,” Herv warned.

  “And where exactly should we go?” Kamith asked, motioning towards the open door to her right. The rain pounded down, hard as ever. Torrents flowed through channels cut in the earth a few feet from the barn, diverting the water from the building’s foundations.

  Herv sighed and leaned back against the wall of one of the stalls. He motioned Ailwur to go ahead. The warrior smiled wickedly and began his tale.

  “Once, in years past, lived Osburu, one of the finest wanton lasses you’d see outside the bordellos of Galeran. She was a short one; could fit under your arm without giving you a crook in the shoulder, but she had a shape like a cleric’s hourglass. Yes, Osburu was everything young men wanted and everything old men imagine their wives were when they first married them.

  “In womanly passions, she did not disappoint. From her fourteenth winter, she took men to her bed, taking the woman’s herb to keep children from her womb. ‘Good’ women snickered, but she cared not; she enjoyed the thrusts of a man and a draught of good ale. This woman made so many ‘friends’ that, for a long time after her fourteenth year, she never paid for a bed or meal when travelling. Too many of her lovers remembered her and stepped up to help her, and she wasn’t one to be ungrateful. She enjoyed men and made sure they knew how much their hospitality was appreciated.”

  “So this clearly isn’t a true story,” Gunnar remarked.

  Ailwur smiled evilly and continued, “But, even for the lustiest of lasses, youth only lasts so long. By her eighteenth winter, even Osburu had turned her thoughts to marriage, children, and other such womanly things. And so, her father began searching for a husband for her. He was relieved, having thought she’d spend all her days flitting from man to man and never settling down. He searched the towns, looking for one who would marry his wandering Osburu. But while many men would lend their hand to help her, or vouch for her ‘kindness’, few were willing to marry a woman so ‘friendly’ with men. Osburu’s father began to despair until he finally found a man who had never ‘known’ his daughter, as most had. His name was ‘Meccudwur’, a warrior from the northern reaches of Three Waters. While no great deeds had been ascribed to his name, he had fought in many battles and managed to survive and continue on in service to the king. A good man was he, but neither smart nor imaginative. He was as dull as the rounded stones one sees on the bottom of the stream. Osburu, on the other hand, had a mouth that could suck one of those stones through a rat’s intestine—”

  Herv cleared his throat loudly. Ailwur sighed and ducked his head like a young boy caught doing something naughty.

  “So, Meccudwur and Osburu wed. The night before the wedding, when Osburu said her ‘goodbyes’ to her many lovers, became so legendary that a whole ’nother story is told about it. But, now wed, Osburu set out to live the life of a married woman.

  “Trouble followed her from the start. On her wedding night, her husband’s love lasted less time than it takes a man to walk fifty paces. Accustomed to skilled lovers, Osburu soon fell into a deep melancholy, one that even her own expert ministrations could not lift.”

  Herv rolled his eyes in disbelief. Gunnar just shook his head, but he said nothing. He’d heard far dirtier tales in the palaces of the lowland kingdoms.

  “So, Osburu came up with a plan. She went to a friend of hers, one whose husband was an old and blubberous man that no woman would wish to touch. The friend gave her a potion she put in her husband’s ale, so that after his meals, he quickly fell to sleep and stayed so until morning. She gave Osburu the potion, and Osburu proceeded to put it into her husband’s ale. Poor, unsuspecting Meccudwur fell deep into sleep. So deep was this sleep that some compare it to that of the dead, for nothing could wake Meccudwur until the potion wore off. Osburu would wander to the taverns and find lovers far more passionate than her own husband, and in this way would satiate the needs that so ruled her.

  “For years, this continued. Osburu continued taking the woman’s herb, but once it failed, and she fell pregnant. Meccudwur, thinking the child his, was overjoyed at the news. But, when the day came and the young boy was born, he did not bear the look of Meccudwur.

  “Now, dull as he was, Meccudwur was smart enough to know of his wife’s past reputation, and he had long wondered why married life had made him so much more tired than he had been when single. Slow as he was, his suspicions were finally aroused. One night, when Osburu’s back was turned, he poured out the ale she had given him and filled another from the barrel. He drank this so Osburu could see, then he feigned sleep. He heard his wife creep out of the house, and he crept after her.

  “He followed her through field and grove to a secluded glade in the forests outside the town. There, under a brilliant moon, he saw her being ridden by another man. Hidden behind a tree, his temper boiled. He reached for the knife at his hip…”

  Ailwur paused to build tension, maybe a little too intoxicated to realize that this was the type of story that didn’t need tension.

  “…When a branch swung down and cracked him across the skull
!” he declared with a swinging motion. “Poor Meccudwur had not realized that Osburu had brought two lovers to the glade to satisfy her, and that one had seen his approach and acted to make sure he could not interrupt their fun. Nevertheless, the commotion disrupted Osburu’s tryst, and she leapt from her paramour to see to her husband. Boring as she found Meccudwur, she did not hate the man. Seeing they would not be inside her again that night, her lovers sulked away.

  “Now, Osburu dragged her husband’s senseless form through forest and field, back to their home. Afraid he had seen too much, she soaked his clothes in ale. Hours passed before poor Meccudwur awoke. When he came to, he began to rant and rave, accusing Osburu of being unfaithful, of letting strange men father her son. Osburu acted shocked and appalled, and proclaimed, ‘I have been nothing but faithful and true to you, my love! What a life I have, that my husband dreams of adultery and blames me for it! That his drunken nightmares are bandied at me as if actual crimes! Here I have sat, tirelessly tending to the baby while my husband drinks himself into a stupor. The vile things those spirituous drinks do to you!’ But Meccudwur persisted, saying that, if he was only drunk, why did his head hurt so much? Osburu remarked, ‘Is it not the commonest of aches for men, to drink too much and awake with their heads pounding?’

  “Not being the smartest, Meccudwur felt himself confused. Unable to tell if what he had seen was real or a dream, he ceased his accusations and went on as before. But something had changed in the man, as can happen when hard blows fall upon a person’s head. He found his lust for Osburu growing in leaps and bounds, taking her at all times of the day and night with passion and stamina worthy of the greatest of lovers. Osburu was overjoyed. No longer had she need of other lovers or potions. She had a man who could match her boundless hunger in her very own home. Her next three children undoubtedly looked like Meccudwur.