Journeyman in Gray (Saga of the Weltheim)

by Linus de Beville

  was a woman with red hair. Her companion was a Huul, one of the fundamentalist kind with ink up and down his neck. He smelled terrible.”

  “You killed him?”

  “I had no choice. He burst into my room swinging a sword. Seems she paid him off. The guardsmen at the ford as well. Those fools were still breathing when I left them.”

  “Hmm,” said Thane and scratched his chin again. “The woman had red hair? I can’t say as I’m familiar. She took the documents, though?”

  “She did. Lifted them right from my pouch while, ah…riding me ragged.”

  “You don’t say?” Thane cocked an eyebrow. “Comely, was she?”

  “Yes, very much so. And skilled. She claimed to be a licensed Imperial Paramour. I cannot speak to that, but her…technique certainly seemed to suggest it.”

  “I shall make note of that…” said Thane again and trailed off.

  “Like a flame,” nodded the Journeyman. “She kept going on about tradition and heritage.” So saying, he tucked the purse into his leather over-tunic and cinched the straps that buckled it shut. Turning back to Thane he said, “You’re thinking she’s a Schlachtvalter aren’t you?”

  “I am,” said Thane. “Red hair and an obsession with tradition and the past, that seems to fit. Very astute of you, by the way. Perhaps you should come work for me instead of me joining your guild?”

  “Never,” smiled the Journeyman.

  “I thought not. Are we settled then?”

  “We are,” said the Journeyman, and again nodded.

  “Very well. I wish you safe travels,” said Thane, and doffed an imaginary cap.

  “Good luck with your war,” replied the Journeyman, tapping his tunic where rested the purse. “Should you need another message rife with misinformation to be ‘stolen’ do let me know.”

  As the old spymaster turned his roan with a tug on the reigns and a few clicks of his tongue he said, “Do not be so eager. The next thief might be a fellow as ugly as the one you slew.”

  The Journeyman smiled and pulled his slate-gray hood further down over his forehead. As Thane urged his horse eastward, winding through bracken and around weathered old pines, the Journeyman began to walk. Tonight he would have to sleep in the wild. The following day, as long as there was not too much snow, would bring him nearly to the Erstewald. A few more days of travel and he would make the capital of this region, the trade city of Lyvys. There he was sure he would find another message waiting for him. No matter where he went there were always missives to be carried and coin to be made. Where that message would take him the Journeyman did not know, nor did he care. He turned north and with long, even strides made his way into the wilderness.

  5. PURSUIT

  By the third day he was certain of their presence. He thought it likely they had dogged him since his meeting with Thane. The simple fact that he had not spotted his pursuers straight away was worrying. Anyone able to conceal themselves well enough to track him unnoticed for days was far more dangerous than the average brigand or cutthroat. He could not be certain of exactly who it was that matched his strides, but it was growing clearer buy the moment that they were more than simple highwaymen.

  The sky had cleared briefly as the Journeyman made his way north. Around him the fells that marched precariously up to the looming Drakkenhuuls gleamed bright and cold in the late winter sun. The saw-toothed peaks were outlined against the western horizon, their broken slopes encrusted with ice and snow, glittering as though gilded with silver. The clouds that had lingered for weeks had returned that same afternoon, muting the dazzling display. The Journeyman’s first inkling that he was pursued had come that evening as the scant light of the setting sun was swallowed by the encroaching cloud cover.

  He had spied a vague human shape hovering just inside the line of trees that capped a rise in the near distance. It had been no more than a shadow lurking beneath an evergreen, but it had been enough. By the next morning, with the sound of his footfalls echoing from the stony face of the surrounding bluffs, the Journeyman had seen another indeterminately human shadow. This figure had stood as still as the first, half concealed by a rocky over-hang. The Journeyman had made no sign that he had detected its presence, but as he passed below the cliff he felt himself observed.

  Perhaps his pursuers had meant for him to see them, perhaps not. If they had chosen to purposefully reveal themselves then the Journeyman surmised that he was in for a long night. Caught out in the open as he was, this would place him at a distinct disadvantage. Moreover, to move with as much ease as his pursuers had displayed meant these foothills were their purlieu. They knew the territory and would strike when the terrain allowed for the greatest advantage. That was something the Journeyman was keen to avoid. With this foremost in mind he moved between the steep hills keeping to open ground. Should his pursuers fall upon him, he would at least see them coming.

  After his encounter with the paramour Silke, the subsequent exchange of steel with her hired man, and the Journeyman’s exodus from the decrepit town of Ghul, he had decided to move on to less turbulent employment. Though the missives the Hegemony’s agent Thane had paid him to allow Silke to lift from his purse, it was best to take only a few such jobs before moving on. They were a violation of his guild oaths and as such carried heavy consequences.

  It was no secret that the Hegemony wanted war: War with the Æsterlunds, with the Horse Lords of the south, and with the barbarians of the Schlachtvalt. The agents and spies of these hostile powers pirouetted about one another, assassinating key players, and buying the allegiance of others. To become enmeshed in this game of shadows could very easily mean his death. His own skin meant more to him than gold and so the Journeyman had made his way north, away from the machinations of empire.

  Moving towards boreal climes and into winter’s next onslaught had seemed like a good way to put some distance between himself and the politics of the south. Now, however, it seemed someone intended to drag him back in. The Journeyman was still a

  LINUS DE BEVILLE day or more south of the Erstewald, that vast expanse of forest that lay at the foot of the Vallén range. Whomever it was that dogged him more than likely meant to take him before he reached the relative safety of the First Forest.

  Upon spying the remains of the Imperial watchtower the Journeyman nodded with satisfaction. Now that dusk was fast approaching he needed a place in which to fortify himself. The appearance of this dilapidated structure was well-nigh providential. With a quick glance to his flanks the Journeyman made his way at a trot towards the crumbling stones of the tower.

  Set against a backdrop of jagged foothills that swept off to the west like so many waves frozen in time, the watchtower was majestic in its decrepitude. It had been built on a stone ridge that capped the low rise up which he strode. Its single turret was made of the same rust colored sandstone as the crest ran along the ridge. In the failing light it stood out starkly against the hazy, leaden sky. The structure itself appeared solid enough, though time and neglect had taken their toll on the old sentinel. Two skeletal trees flanked the disused tower and their deadfall littered the ground. Along with what remained of the stone walls this field of debris would create a fine defensive perimeter, allowing the Journeyman to hear the approach of anyone long before they reached the tower.

  As he made his way over the fallen branches the Journeyman scooped up several large boughs. These he carried through the open portal that stood on the eastern side of the structure. The door had fallen in long ago and now lay flat, its contours encrusted with snow and ice. After heaving the branches he had gathered to one side the Journeyman busied himself prying the door free of the frozen ground. When he had loosed it from its icy encasement he propped it up as best he could in the doorway. The weathered old boards were a poor substitute for a locked gate, but it would suit his purposes well enough.

  After the door had been dealt with the Journeyman turned his attention back to the deadfall. He broke up the branches, arranged t
hem in the remains of the watchtower’s central hearth, and produced dried moss from his pouch. He set flint and steel to the moss and nursed the fledgling spark that caught in its folds. When the moss kindled in earnest he set the smallest of the branches alight. With a fire now burning in the center of the hollowed out tower the Journeyman set his vigil. He turned his eyes from the glow of the fire to preserve his night vision and waited.

  The men came just as the last of the ghostly light of evening had begun to drain from the sky.

  6. ROUT

  The four men that strode from the tree line towards the watchtower did not bother to mask their approach. Their posture was hunched, their footfalls purposeful. They made their way up the rise four abreast, spaced evenly, and with weapons drawn. The Journeyman saw two short swords, an axe, and a spear. The spearman was also equipped with a shield, round and more than likely made of wood and hide. Though the men appeared as little more than silhouettes set against the colorless landscape, the Journeyman could see that they wore leather and furs. As they came he heard neither the rustle of mail nor the clank of plate.

  The Journeyman watched the four approach from the gap between the door and its jam. On his back he could feel the warmth of the fire; he could hear the crackle of the flames, and the sound of melting snow. Outside all was silent save for the footfalls of the advancing men, their booted feet crunching through the deadfall and the crusted, windblown snow.

  When the men were within a few meters of the watchtower the Journeyman withdrew from his place by the door and pulled the long knife he kept sheathed at the small of his back. He stepped to the right of the door, a position that would correspond to the left side of whoever was first through the portal. This would allow a precious second or two, while the man attempted to bring his weapon to bear, that the Journeyman could exploit. The narrow doorway would force the men to attack one at a time and, with the fire at his back, would lend him the advantage of attacking from out of the light.

  Heedless of whatever preparations the Journeyman might have made, the four men came on. Without pause or ceremony the door was kicked savagely inward. It flew to one side and broke into several pieces as it struck the frozen ground. The man who had done the kicking stepped aside and one of the two swordsmen rushed headlong through the gap. The Journeyman registered the shaved sides of the man’s head, his long beard, and the swirl of tattoos that rose along the sides of his neck in the instant before he brought down his quarterstaff. The man was a Huul; a savage just like the one he had slain in Ghul.

  The length of hardwood struck the man on the back of the head and blood sprayed in a fine mist. The Huul reeled forward, half senseless, and went sprawling. He landed face first in the Journeyman’s fire sending up a cascade of sparks.

  The Journeyman did not stop to watch as the half-conscious man began to smolder. Instead he turned his focus to the next man through the door. The Journeyman hit him in the face with all the force he could muster, driving the end of his staff into the man’s mouth. The Huul’s teeth shattered and his lips split as the length of hardwood drove into his palate. He floundered backwards, knocking into the man behind him. His confederate shoved at the wounded man, trying to disentangle himself.

  As the second Hull fell to the side clutching his ruined mouth, a scream split the air. The Journeyman did not have to look around to know that the man who had fallen into the fire was now ablaze. Dazed by the Journeyman’s blow he had lingered in the coals long enough for his garments and hair to enkindle. The flames would occupy the unfortunate Huul long enough for the Journeyman to contend with the spearman who, now free of his toothless companion, charged forward.

  The spearman was slightly more shrewd than the two who had proceeded him. He moved swiftly, his shield upraised, his spear held low. Should the Journeyman attempt to attack head on he would receive a thrust to the guts. Out in the open the man with the spear would have a distinct advantage, but in the enclosed watchtower the weapon would be unwieldy and awkward. Catching the Huul before he had managed to fully clear the doorway, the Journeyman slammed himself bodily into the man’s shield.

  The spearman grunted as he was driven against the edge of the stone portal. With the Huul’s spear arm pinned the Journeyman darted in with his knife, the agile weapon easily subverting the shield’s defenses. He felt the blade pierce through leather and flesh, its honed edge scraping against bone. The man screamed and the Journeyman thrust upwards with all his might. For a few brutal seconds he sawed the blade back and forth shredding muscle and the soft tissue beneath.

  Wrenching his knife free of the dying man, the Journeyman stepped back into the relative shelter of the watchtower. Behind him, the Huul who had gone into the fire had managed to beat out most of the flames that licked at his clothes and hair. The Journeyman glimpsed him out of the corner of one eye, smoke pouring from the stinking furs strapped about his shoulders. The barbarian’s face was blackened, the scorched flesh already beginning to split, revealing red meat below.

  In a moment the burned Huul would be on his feet and, driven by anger and pain, would renew his assault. This meant the Journeyman would be beset from two sides and that would require a shift in tactics. Abandoning his position by the door the Journeyman moved towards the interior of the tower, his flight covered by the dying spearman who blocked the entryway.

  As he made his way to the far side of the cylinder, where the rotted stairway leading up to the ramparts still stood, the Journeyman slashed at the burned Huul. His blade connected with the man’s throat and laid it open without interrupting his stride. The Journeyman mounted the stairs as crimson pumped across the snow in great, warm gouts. Within seconds the scorched Huul, gagging and spluttering, fell lifeless into the ruin of the fire.

  Avoiding those rungs too rotted to support his weight, the Journeyman picked his way up the circular catwalk that still ringed most of the tower’s battlements. It had been a rickety structure to begin with and was now doubly treacherous. The Journeyman did not doubt that either he, or the combined weight of his attackers, would bring it crashing down. The trick would be to engineer that fall so his pursuers were the ones who suffered and not he.

  Below him the two remaining Huuls dragged the dead spearman from the doorway and entered in rapid succession. The Journeyman now received a bird’s eye view of his pursuers. These tribesmen were garbed almost identically to the man he had slain in Ghul. Their stench matched that of Silke’s agent as well. The only question was why they were here. Had they tracked him since he had taken his leave of the shanty town? Or had they picked up his trail later on? It was entirely feasible that the red-haired siren had hired these men to kill him as well. Then again, perhaps it was coincidence and they were simply bandits out to steal what they could from a lone traveler.

  The Journeyman smirked at this thought. Coincidence was the bastion of fools. Every action created ripples and these ripples touched the lives of many. Whatever the reason for their pursuit, the Journeyman was sure these men were somehow connected with Silke or the slain Huul rotting back in filthy little Ghul.

  “Journeyman!” bellowed the Huul, his cry echoing from the walls of the empty tower.

  The Journeyman looked down from where he perched on the groaning rampart. “What do you want, barbarian? Two of your men are slain; why continue this foolishness?”

  “Journeyman!” the Huul bellowed a second time, his face contorted with rage.

  The Journeyman shook his head. “If you insist on pressing this matter I will kill you just as I did the two fools lying at your feet. Leave this place and go lick your wounds far away from me. Continue to press your luck and I will end your life.”

  With a rancorous cry the Huul charged across the narrow interior of the tower, vaulted over his dead comrade, and was crashing up the stars towards the Journeyman before the echo of his utterance had died. Much to the Journeyman’s chagrin the rungs of the stair leading to the rampart held. Within seconds the Huul and the Journeyman stood level wit
h one another.

  The barbarian came on in a headlong rush, swinging his axe in a figure-eight. The Journeyman was driven back; his only defense against the rain of steel was to withdraw and stay just out of reach. Should he attempt to interrupt that lethal pattern he would lose whatever he stuck in its way, be that staff or limb.

  Back and back the Huul forced the Journeyman, his axe kicking up sparks from the places where it clipped the tower’s decaying crenellations. Then there was nowhere left to go. The boards that made up the walkway ended abruptly and the Journeyman nearly went over backwards as his heel brushed empty space. He teetered for a second, a regretful second, that allowed the enraged Huul to capitalize on his lack of balance.

  Swinging his great axe in a destructive downward arc, the Huul would have cloven a lesser man nearly in twain. Fortunately for the Journeyman his reflexes were sharp, his desire to live sharper still. Instead of allowing the glittering steel to open his chest the Journeyman launched himself at the Huul. It was an off-balance lunge, awkward and haphazard. If the two men had been on solid ground the lunge would have yielded little result. As fortune would have it, the boards of the rampart chose that moment to give way under the combined weight of the two men.

  Accompanied by a shower of splinters the Huul and the Journeyman plunged to the frozen ground below. They struck with a bone jarring thud, both still entangled. Pain shot through the Journeyman’s side as the wind was driven out of him. His left fore-arm, caught at an odd angle amongst the Huul’s limbs, broke along with his quarterstaff. He cried aloud and was joined by the Huul’s bellow of pain.

  For several seconds that seemed to stretch into an eternity the Journeyman and the Huul lay entangled on the cold ground inside the ring of decrepit stonework and rotted wood. The Journeyman could smell the smoldering coals of his fire and the scorched flesh of the throat-cut barbarian. Overhead a few flakes of snow began to drift out of the darkened sky. He watched as they sifted slowly downwards, coming to rest on the head of the Huul whose teeth he had smashed in.