The Wanderer's Tale

by David Bilsborough

  By this stage the vomiting had started, so Gapp left the room to fetch a pail of water and a good supply of rags, brushing past a red-robed newcomer who had just entered.

  A moment later, from behind Nibulus’s head, two brown hands reached out and cupped themselves firmly over the startled Peladane’s eyes.

  ‘Death to the Green Ones,’ a thickly accented voice hissed.

  ‘Xilva!’ Nibulus laughed. ‘Can’t you ever be normal and just say hello?’

  Methuselech vaulted over his friend’s knees to land in front of him. ‘Afraid not, porky,’ he laughed. ‘We of the Asyphe dance through life with a jest ever in our hearts. If you could but—’

  A sudden blade at his throat pressed Xilvafloese’s head back, and the joviality of the scene was instantly vaporized under the sheer intimidation radiating from the tip of the knife pressed at the mercenary’s neck. It was wielded by Stufi, who leaned so close to Nibulus’s guest that the spectators thought he was about to slip his tongue into his ear.

  ‘If you ever try something like that again,’ the Peladane said softly, ‘you’ll be dancing through your own entrails with your bollocks in your mouth . . . foreigner!’

  ‘All right lads, that’ll do,’ said Nibulus nervously. ‘Myself and Xilva have got an appointment right now. Can’t keep Kuw waiting, can we?’

  ‘Where were those two miserable oafs during the charge of the Ouanif lancers, anyway?’ Methuselech muttered irritably as he and Nibulus strode through the cloisters of Wintus Abbey. ‘Celebrating our imminent victory in the palace wine cellars, no doubt.’

  ‘No doubt,’ Nibulus agreed as he steered his friend out of the shade of the cloisters and over the garth. ‘That’s about all they’re good for, these days – but thanks for not killing them both, anyway.’

  ‘Any time, my friend.’

  Nibulus led Xilvafloese on through a troop of Peladane novices who were practising on the garth – clearly novices, for they wore only a single green tunic as they wielded mace, spear and bow – and on through a heavy door between two lounging sentinels. Down a winding staircase they continued and into the noisiest, busiest vault in the whole town.

  ‘Ah, Master Nibulus,’ came a voice over the metallic clamour of the chamber, ‘Almost on time. Come in, come in! – Oh . . . you’ve brought your foreign friend with you, I see . . .’

  Kuw Dachs was a retired but highly respected veteran of the Felari Wars, fought many years past, and the Grand Arsenal here was his domain. He did not disclose its secrets lightly.

  ‘Methuselech Xilvafloese is no foreigner in Wintus Hall,’ Nibulus replied, masking his embarrassment with a stiff smile. ‘Come, show me what you’ve got for me this time.’

  The two warriors were guided through the armoury by Kuw himself, while all around them men hammered and beat, folded and forged, cut and trimmed, and generally made a lot of noise with bits of metal. There were armourers, fletchers, blacksmiths, carpenters, tanners and seamstresses, all working as diligently as possible whenever Kuw walked past. Expert and apprentice alike were busy enmeshing the fine links on chainmail habergeons, layering bands of iron over closely fitting cuirasses and gorgets, fitting feather to arrow, stirrup to crossbow, engraving scrollwork onto pommels and blades; every process, in fact, from the initial smelting of iron for weapons and armour to the fine detailed sewing of insignia onto lordly tabards. The place was heavy with the smell of a hundred different materials.

  But it was past all these that Nibulus and his friend were led, to a smaller chamber in which lay Mr Dachs’s ‘special stuff’.

  ‘Your arms and armour await, Master Nibulus,’ Kuw announced with relish. ‘Let us first start with your new sword here, Unferth.’

  The aged retainer ceremoniously lifted the six-foot-long Great-sword from its bracket on the wall and presented it to the Peladane. ‘We’ve re-bound the leather grip,’ he explained as Nibulus gazed in rapture at his father’s sword, ‘and honed the blade to a sharpness never before achieved.’

  Nibulus was astonished. This weapon had been forged thirty years ago for his father and, as was the fashion amongst latter-day Peladanes, the blade of the current Warlord was named after the legendary sword of Pel-Adan himself. Now, for this his first campaign, it had been handed down to him! He hefted it, amazed at the lightness of such a huge weapon.

  ‘Crafted in Tengriite for lightness and strength, alloyed with iron for use against you-know-what,’ explained the armourer.

  Nibulus gave it a few practice sweeps, and was no less than dumbfounded at its lightness.

  ‘Now pay attention, Master Nibulus. Let me show you this next item . . .’

  Kuw handed what looked like a leather mare’s-milk flask to the Peladane. ‘Looks perfectly innocuous, doesn’t it? But just watch what happens when I press this little catch here . . .’ There was a soft snik, and a veritable forest of razor-sharp spikes sprang out of slits in the leather casing, making it resemble a metal hedgehog. ‘Then all we do is . . .’ – Kuw twisted off the stopper, which turned out to be the handle, on the end of a retractable chain – ‘. . . this and, as you will no doubt agree, you have a formidable swinging morning-star!’

  ‘Hmm . . .’ Nibulus said, raising a sidelong eyebrow at Methuselech. ‘Not sure what the point of this is, exactly. Why not just carry a normal morning-star?’

  ‘As you will,’ snapped Kuw, openly irritable, snatching it back without any further persuasion. ‘Perhaps you could find a use for this, then. I call it the Thresher.’

  It was a chain, light and strong, made of tiny linked blades, with a specially made hook at one end. ‘For those times in a busy Peladane’s life when he finds himself surrounded by many enemies, and conventional weapons just aren’t enough,’ Kuw explained. ‘You snap your sword onto this hook like so, grasp the other end of the chain, then swing the bugger round your head for all your worth! Cuts down all and everything within a fifteen-foot radius . . . so long as they’re not armoured. Made up a pair of these for my kids for their last birthday.’

  Both Nibulus and Methuselech gaped.

  ‘I think you could do with getting out a bit more,’ Nibulus suggested.

  ‘You don’t like it?’

  ‘On the contrary,’ Nibulus said, folding the chain carefully into its toughened leather bag. ‘I can’t wait to try it out!’

  ‘Though perhaps not just now, with all that mead in you,’ his friend suggested.

  ‘And this,’ Kuw announced with the greatest of pleasure, ‘I am particularly fond of. It’s your new suit of armour.’

  If the Thresher had caused him to gape, this latest item caused Nibulus’s jaw to almost dislocate and drop on the floor. There before him, arranged upon a rack and illuminated on either side by torches specially treated with a resin that caused their flame to burn with a particularly dramatic effervescence, stood the most unbelievable suit of armour the young Peladane had ever beheld.

  Of all the peoples in the world, the Peladanes had perfected the technology of armouring. The elite of their number wore a specially forged, super-heated metal called Tengriite, the same substance that Unferth was wrought from. Through the heating process, it could turn a burnt-copper colour, a varnished redwood or an igneous blue. The eventual colour depended on the quality, with blue being esteemed the highest grade. All grades were strong and very, very light in weight, but the blue had the added distinction of being able to produce an electric shock when struck by metal weapons. This would not penetrate the special padding beneath, but would as often as not give the attacker a jolt, usually causing him to drop his own weapon.

  But it was not just the blue Tengriite of this suit of armour that caused the onlookers to drool like victims of a debilitating disease; it was the sheer magnificence of design. The hauberk was of the finest, most exquisite chainmail reinforced by overlapping shell-shaped scales down the sides, and a burnished red Tengriite plastron over the chest, embossed with the grim visage of Pel-Adan himself. The fluted pauldrons, vambraces a
nd greaves all bore fierce spikes that would be useful in the kind of brutal, close combat that their wearer was so often forced to employ.

  To grip Unferth’s mighty hilt a pair of unfeasibly large gauntlets of black chainmail was provided, with overlapping silver fish-scales, spikes protruding from each knuckle and a wide, fishtail-shaped guard covering the wrists. These were of simple iron, for heftiness was needed here, as also with the great iron-capped boots of toughened leather.

  And finally, to crown all this, a majestic dragon-crested helm with a sallet shaped like a fierce boar’s head, behind which only the wearer’s eyes could be seen, anonymous and menacing.

  ‘’Tis the finest and most extravagantly expensive suit of armour in the whole of the North,’ Kuw Dachs intoned solemnly, ‘the culmination of centuries of knowledge, craftsmanship and experience. Wear it nobly, young Peladane.’

  Nibulus merely nodded, still awe-struck.

  ‘Don’t suppose you’ve got one in lilac, have you?’

  ‘Oh, do grow up, Master Nibulus!’

  Out on the tourney fields it was a fine evening. The sky was a deep, rich blue, its clarity tainted only by a scatter of clouds in the red glow of sunset, and a soft, golden glow from the dwindling rays of the westering sun bathed the green lawns and yellow battlements of Wintus Hall. High up on the walls, where the red, white and black flag of the Wintus clan rippled in a stiff breeze, a single sentry patrolled. The roseate light of the setting sun reflected off his bright helmet and shining spear-tip as he lethargically watched the fighters practising below.

  Nibulus was feeling on top of the world. The fragrance of newly cut grass on the cooling breeze filled his nostrils as he inhaled deeply, and above him swallows soared in the sky. This was surely his favourite time of year, when the trees were bright with fresh green leaves, the headier spring fragrances filled the air, and no matter how strongly the sun shone, always there was a fresh breeze to brace the soul. He felt a thrill of excitement and anticipation each time he heard the swish of a blade, the ring of metal upon metal, or the sharp yelp of pain as iron bit into flesh. These sounds and others on the tourney field today reminded him of every other occasion on which he had practised before undertaking a campaign, and it sent a surge of electricity through his body.

  This occasion was, if anything, even more stimulating than previous times, for he now had strode out donned in his new suit of armour and carrying the Greatsword. He was thrilled at the way he looked and felt like nothing short of a god.

  With him walked Methuselech, who, in his loosely flowing desert garb, contrasted as sharply as was possible with the hulking man-of-iron at his side. He too bore a two-handed sword, a great, curved length of rune-engraved sharpness called a shamsheer, almost as long as the Peladane’s own. Also strapped across his back was a great ivory longbow and a soft leather quiver adorned with felspar, lapis lazuli and turquoise, and studded with beryl.

  ‘You’re not seriously intending to bring that metal suit along with you, are you?’ Methuselech asked.

  ‘And why not?’ replied the Peladane haughtily.

  ‘Because it’s enormous, and it’s metal, and we’re going to be travelling for weeks or months, up to the coldest place in the world. And this time there’ll be no wagons to carry things in . . .’

  ‘This armour is the most wonderful thing that has ever happened to me,’ Nibulus explained slowly and deliberately, as though in a daze of rapture. ‘And if you believe that I am going to leave it behind on my very first campaign, you really must be a bloody foreigner like everyone else says. I am going to wear it every day, all the way there and all the way back, and probably even sleep in it. I’m not going to take it off even once . . . in fact come to think of it, I might even have myself sealed into it forever.’

  ‘That’s just the mead talking.’

  ‘No, that’s the true Peladane talking.’

  They continued out onto the field, and there began to practise. No sooner had they begun when they were joined by the eighth member of the party due to set out, the silent watcher from the front row at the council. The sun did not actually darken at his approach, but it certainly seemed as if it might have.

  ‘Hello, Odf,’ Nibulus stiffly addressed the newcomer. ‘Come to practise?’

  He was hoping the fellow was here merely to watch, but unfortunately he was intending to practise too.

  He introduced them: ‘Odf, this is Methuselech Xilvafloese, warrior of the Asyphe. Xilva, this is Odf Uglekort, mercenary of Vregh-Nahov.’

  ‘Paulus,’ the man corrected.

  ‘Of course; Paulus is the name he has adopted when he works with Peladanes,’ Nibulus explained.

  Methuselech was painfully aware of just how blatantly he was staring at the Nahovian, yet found he was quite unable to stop himself. The forest-lands of Vregh-Nahov did not enjoy a favourable reputation. Situated to the east of the Polgrim hunting grounds, they were a harsh and wild region. Apart from frequent and bloody raids by the hillfolk of the Brunamara Mountains to their north-east, invasions by the greedy Polgs from the west, and the regular winter incursions by the terrible eighteen-foot-tall, two-headed Ettins from the Ildjern Mountains to the north-west, there was also the fierce rivalry between the various tribes of their own race to contend with. These tribes, or Chlans, had little interaction with each other unless it were fighting, and there was consequently much bloodshed between them.

  As a result, this dark, tree-covered land bred fierce and bitter men, hostile to outsiders and distrustful of each other. They were notoriously cruel, but also noted for their efficient deadliness and their willingness to hire themselves out as mercenaries.

  Judging by this one’s appearance, he was no different. In all Methuselech’s years of fighting, he had never met anyone who looked so dark and grim as the man in front of him now. Gauntly dressed in black, and standing seven foot tall, the mere sight of Odf – or Paulus – was enough to impose caution, discomfort, even fear in most observers. There was an air of death about him, in the very way he walked and moved, so calmly, carefully.

  Some likened him to a raven, the Peladane’s symbol for death, but it would be perhaps more accurate to compare him to a crow, with his square-cut black hair, sharp and pointed face with its beaky nose, and his bitterly keen hand-and-a-half sword ever at the ready. Like a carrion bird he stalked about Nordwas in his high blue-black boots, ever alone, as if patiently waiting for a kill. A charcoal-grey coat that almost reached down to the ankles concealed most of his black leather tunic and trousers. He bore no shield or other armour, save for a long, black, brass-studded cape that covered his shoulders almost like a pair of folded wings. Concealing most of his head, he wore a slate-grey hood decorated with two long black feathers that stuck up on the left side.

  Despite this hood, the more Methuselech studied him, the more a sense of discomfort crept over him. Whatever was the matter with the man’s face?

  The Nahovian squared up to the Peladane.

  ‘Go easy on him, Nibb,’ Methuselech said with a smile. ‘He might turn ugly.’

  The practice commenced. Even as a practice, by the Peladanes’ standards this was a tough one. As the two fighters faced up to each other, it appeared to be a blatant mismatch: the magnificently accoutred Warlord’s heir, with his haughty demeanour and intimidating bulk, against some ragged scarecrow who looked too elongated to even stand up straight. Yet, as soon as the steward had given the signal to begin, Nibulus felt the tip of his adversary’s sword pressed to his throat.

  There did not seem to have been even the slightest split-second between the starting signal and the blade already grazing his neck.

  ‘One to you,’ Nibulus conceded, his voice faint with awe. It was clearly going to take a lot more than his flashy armour to score against this one.

  As round two began, Nibulus immediately closed in on his opponent, only to find him not there, and himself sprawling on his face with a mouthful of grass.

  Yet Nibulus Wintus was cons
idered one of Nordwas’s finest, so round three commenced. This time he leapt back sharply, hoping to buy at least a second of time in which to react. As he did so he swept the Greatsword around in a wide arc, to keep the mercenary at bay. Unferth, for all its size, was easy to handle, and the armour hardly hindered him at all. Maybe he could win this one round at least.

  And so their practice began in earnest. Nibulus had heard something of the Nahovian’s reputation, but he had never competed against him, and it seemed now that this was probably the way it should have remained. Indeed, it seemed he was fighting for his very life . . .

  Methuselech looked on with growing fascination. At one point Paulus’s hood flipped back, and at last his entire face was revealed. Pallid, bony and deformed, it was not a pretty sight; below the thick eyebrows that met in the middle, there was only one sound eye, pale and grey. The other was no more than a white, featureless orb and even the skin around it was encrusted with livid sores.

  ‘What an unholy mess!’ Methuselech gagged. ‘How did he ever get like that?’

  ‘I yield!’ Nibulus boomed as he lay upon his back, with Paulus’s sword less than an inch from his right eyeball. The Nahovian smiled knowingly, and with the tip of his sword tried to flip his foe’s boar-shaped sallet up. But an especially good charge had built up in the Tengriite helm, and with a loud crack the ensuing electric shock almost knocked Paulus from his feet and caused him to cry out in surprise and pain, dropping his weapon.

  ‘It does work, then.’ Nibulus smirked, and got to his feet.

  Paulus was outraged. Where he came from, defeat meant only death, and in that country there was no concept of a fair and honourable tournament. But he was especially outraged at being defeated by this Warlord’s son. Jerkily he rose to his feet, picked up his sword and, in increasingly spasmodic movements, turned to walk away.

  ‘Oh no,’ Nibulus muttered. ‘Here we go again . . .’

  As he went, the whey-faced warrior slowed, trying desperately to regain control of his movements, then his whole frame began to shake in spasms. Through gritted teeth a deep, strangled cry forced its way out, and he fumed with anger and frustration. The electric shock had triggered his ‘condition’, and robbed him of control and dignity. All he could do now was to retire from the tourney field, stumbling and jerking like a puppet.