The Wanderer's Tale

by David Bilsborough

  ‘Gjoeger,’ whispered Wodeman as the figure continued to stare at them.

  ‘Come again?’ said Nibulus uncertainly.

  ‘Swamp giant,’ Bolldhe translated in hushed tones. ‘One of the rarest of all giants. Hardly anyone has ever seen one, so make the most of it now . . . I myself have only seen three in my whole lifetime, this one included.’ He could not help smiling at this last little boast. ‘Don’t worry – they never interfere in other people’s lives unless they are provoked.’

  ‘Where’ve you ever seen swamp giants?’ Nibulus asked sceptically.

  ‘Usually in swamps . . .’

  ‘Why’s it staring at us like that?’ growled Paulus in agitation. ‘Why doesn’t it do something?’

  ‘Probably because it don’t know quite what to make of us,’ Bolldhe suggested. ‘As the Peladane said earlier, you don’t get many visitors to these parts.’

  ‘Or maybe it wonders why we’re staring at it,’ Wodeman commented. ‘Come on, let’s make contact.’

  Despite a look of alarm from Paulus and the mage-priests, Nibulus nodded his assent.

  ‘Ho, Gjoeger!’ Wodeman called out confidently. ‘Over here!’

  At first the swamp giant continued to peer at them dumbly, but presently it began to approach, propelling itself along powerfully but gracefully by means of a great barge pole.

  ‘Be careful what you say,’ Bolldhe cautioned them as it drew near. ‘They look far more simple than they actually are.’

  I’ll be ready for it if it tries anything, Nibulus thought bullishly.

  ‘Yes,’ added Wodeman, ‘they’re the only giants to use magic.’

  Magic?

  The Gjoeger drew up to them. It was built to the general proportions of a man, except for its arms, which hung down past its knees. The pole was held in great hands the size of paddles, with long fingers slightly webbed, that ended in short talons. Long hair the colour of marsh-weed hung in matted clusters around the broad shoulders, and it was dressed in a single, loose-hanging garment of strange design, the same glistening, dark-brownish grey as its hair. In contrast its face glimmered palely in the fading evening light, like the cleanly picked bones of the dead that lie just beneath the surface of ponds. Deep-green, liquid eyes regarded them inscrutably from its almost batrachian yet highly intelligent face.

  ‘Hail!’ Nibulus cheerfully greeted the giant. ‘Fair be the weather upon your most honourable aquatic trade. I trust the currents are in your favour, the wind at your back, and the mud not too . . .’ – he sought for words – ‘deep. May your floats be forever buoyant, your hands without cramp . . . and not too clogging the weeds upon your pole.’

  He stopped there. The Gjoeger was not responding at all. But, then, what exactly was one supposed to say to a twelve-foot, magical, amphibious wherryman? What did they talk about? And what, now that it came down to it, did Nibulus actually want?

  ‘They do speak Aescalandian, don’t they?’ he demanded.

  ‘Ssenh M’bngo lihd-sna Mnorbn-Mlud na’ frhornm,’ the giant commented.

  ‘I doubt it,’ Bolldhe hazarded, to the astonished vexation of the Peladane.

  It was Wodeman who hit upon the idea of trying to communicate with runes. He brought out his little leather pouch, squatted on the muddy path and spread the little hazelwood tiles out before him. The giant leaned closer and peered at them, then nodded his head hesitantly.

  ‘Think he understands those things?’ Nibulus asked.

  ‘These runes have been used throughout the North for thousands of years,’ Wodeman replied. ‘By all races, too. They bypass language, and go straight for the mind’s eye.’

  He placed the runes of The Road, Water and Gold before him. The Gjoeger squinted a moment, then smiled.

  ‘Hrn-Mnon’fa Drzkh-thula!’ he enthused, and motioned for them to come aboard.

  ‘I guess he does, then,’ Nibulus said, shaking his head in wonderment. They all boarded the raft, letting Zhang eagerly go first, his hoofs clattering noisily upon the boards.

  ‘Drrgn’m du’adh Nno’marmn-niobh, Mnsenh da fforrim’mdh?’ the giant asked politely when they were all aboard.

  They looked at each other dubiously.

  ‘Myst-Hakel?’ Bolldhe ventured.

  The Gjoeger cocked his head as if considering this destination for a moment, then simply shrugged and pushed them out into midstream.

  Hemmed in by the tall swamp-grass that rose about them on all sides, the company’s view of their surroundings was limited. Now and then during their half-hour journey with the wherryman they would glide amongst the grassy, floating islands of the moorhens, their occupants blinking at them beadily as they passed. Snipes there were too, probing the silt with their long, needle-like bills, and storks aplenty, unafraid of the boat and its strange company. Huge nets they would pass, that were suspended either just above or below the water level by great long beams of pliable wood; and, appearing more frequently the further they went, there were low, hump-backed bridges of a single log with a rope handrail, and maybe the odd skinny mongrel nervously nosing its way along its awkward wooden surface.

  Such bridges obliged the passengers to crouch down whenever they passed beneath them. But, strangely enough, they noticed this never seemed to apply to the Gjoeger, who would remain perfectly upright even though he loomed a few feet above these bridges, and would then simply pass through them.

  So far they had not seen any local inhabitants, but it was not long before they caught their first glimpse of some buildings, at the moment just the tops of towers off in the distance, that could be seen poking above the screen of tall grass. Gradually they drew nearer to these towers, and soon they could see them clearly. A great temple built of light-coloured sun-baked clay rose up out of the swamp. With turrets of weird and intricate design, and walls with rounded, undulating crenellations, this was clearly the work of a more ancient and civilized culture than that which inhabited the town currently. Presumably this temple was dedicated to the fire god Nibulus had mentioned earlier. Standing well over sixty feet above the water level, it served as a marker-post for any who might become lost in those jungle-like marshes with their maze of weed-choked channels.

  As the company were ferried closer to this anomalous edifice, they finally caught their first sightings of the locals. Nibulus hadn’t been wrong; most were human or Hauger, but some were Polg. All were on boats of one type or another, and every one of them immediately stopped whatever they were doing upon spotting what the Gjoeger had brought in his wherry. They stared silently, motionlessly, expressionlessly as the newcomers drifted past.

  ‘Hands on money-belts, men,’ Bolldhe warned his companions quietly, ‘and have your weapons ready. If anyone try to talk, keep going. Don’t talk unless you must, don’t look them in the eye, and above all try not to look wealthy.’

  ‘How exactly does one go about not looking wealthy?’ Nibulus demanded.

  ‘Well, don’t stride, for one thing; try shuffling.’

  Through the gawping fishermen and trappers they continued, trying not to stare back, but trying at the same time to sneak the odd sidelong glance at these unfamiliar people. The humans and Haugers were dressed in light, loose clothes of drab greys, greens and browns, while the Polgrim favoured deep, richer colours and also wore furs and skins.

  Ahead there were yet more boaters, fishing, weed-cutting or seeing to their traps, and soon the first dwellings came into view. In sharp contrast to the grand temple that towered over everything, these were much humbler, more transient structures. Supported on stout poles, these ramshackle huts were made out of flimsy planks of wood nailed and lashed together crudely to provide shelter cheap and easy to build. They appeared every bit as damp and miserable as the people who dwelt within them. Pale, half-seen faces peered out at the travellers from gloomy interiors; dour-faced men in woollen hats and wizened old Haugers smoking weed lounged in doorways, and these too stared at the uninvited newcomers. In fact there was not a single inhabitant th
at did not stop and stare.

  The six men began to feel increasingly uncomfortable as the swamp giant propelled them into the midst of this silent audience, and the late summer evening seemed a little too sticky. Looking behind them, they noted with consternation that the boaters they had passed earlier were now following them, muttering quietly amongst themselves and pointing, though still at a respectful distance.

  Soon the tall swamp-grass petered out, and the whole of the town rose before them in plain view. From an Aescalandian point of view, Myst-Hakel was, to say the least, highly unusual. Gapp, had he been there, would have described it as ‘exotic’. This was true in so far as it was bizarre and foreign-looking, but it was noticeably lacking in that certain romance, colour and beauty which the word tends to imply.

  Centred around a broad knoll, the town rose out of the wetland like an island. The low knoll itself supported the larger houses, which were built from the same clay-mud as the temple, and to a similar, if simpler, design. The houses that encircled this knoll, however, were completely different; like the outlying shacks the company had already passed, these seemed no more than a collection of shabby little huts, built upon stilts, all interconnected by a criss-cross jumble of shackleboard walkways. They huddled together in a disorderly manner, clinging to the periphery of the knoll in much the same way the floating moorhen-nests they had seen earlier anchored themselves to the riverbanks – or, perhaps more aptly, like drowning men clinging around a life-raft.

  The group on the wherry sailed on into the shanty town, in amongst its maze of poles, cabins and walkways. The first boats comprising the floating night-market were beginning to arrive, laden with an assortment of dubious and unpleasant-smelling wares. Here also were found larger vessels that served as houseboats, strung with washing lines and milling with children. Some were setting out bowls on the flat roofs for the evening meal, whilst their mothers toiled in the smoky interiors below. All such vessels looked to be in serious need of repair.

  Lining their route, more people had gathered to watch the newcomers, for word had already spread fast. Noisy children scuttled along the shackleboards, grinning and pointing at the wherryman and his charges. Some threw sticks and stones, screeching in wild, uncontrollable excitement. They looked the sort of kids who might live in the worst part of town, the low-rent housing zones where every hovel seems to have a broken-down cart parked outside, supported on stacks of bricks and with its wheels removed.

  Paulus eyed them intently and began sharpening his blade.

  They passed under an arch and approached a wide docking area. One of the broader walkways appeared to serve as the main jetty, and it was towards this that the giant now punted them. A larger crowd had gathered here to have a gander at these outlandish foreigners who had come amongst them, but unlike the previous gawpers who had kept their distance, these ones physically blocked their way.

  The Gjoeger, however, was apparently treated with a considerable amount of reverence, for a loud bellow and a wave of his pole soon dispersed the crowd sufficiently to enable his passengers to finally climb up onto the jetty. A plank was brought out by the wharfinger specially for Zhang, who nimbly trotted up it to stand with his companions.

  ‘Well,’ announced Nibulus cheerfully, but with a slightly mocking undertone, ‘Myst-Hakel.’

  The others nodded uncertainly.

  ‘Hot bath, huge steaming meal, then a dry place to kip for the night,’ Nibulus promised to his men – as if they needed this encouragement – and stretched his big arms wide. ‘Come on, lads, let’s find an inn.’

  He handed the swamp giant a golden zlat for his services, then, with one last look at their taciturn boatman, gave a wave and set off into town. The others followed their buoyant leader as he marched off along one of the wider platforms, apparently oblivious to the large throng he was striding through. The half-rotted boards creaked alarmingly as he went, but this did not seem to bother him. Finwald followed him closely, wrapping himself up in his black cloak and pulling his wide-brimmed hat low over his eyes. Wodeman came next, staring around at their spectators in open curiosity. Then Appa, blowing mucus from his nostrils with his pinched fingers, Paulus with bastard-sword held at the ready, and finally Bolldhe, leading his horse noisily over the sagging planking.

  Sometimes they would have to step aside, dangerously close to the edge, as surly fishermen lumbered by. Past gangs of sag-jawed net-menders they went, too, who would uniformly stop in their tasks to stare up at them; also gap-toothed old Haug-crones, peering out ignorantly from darkened doorways; packs of insolent brats of indeterminate race, sitting upon barrels of nails, pitch, quicklime and hemp, smoking pipes and making rude gestures at the arrivals; while down below, where the barges were laid out like floating planks, slime-coated Boggarts, waist-deep in water as they caulked the hulls with oakum, risked the wrath of their Polgrim overseers by pausing in their toil to glance up at the strangers above.

  All around them was evidence of poverty and decay. Marsh-birds and vermin stalked or scuttled everywhere, gathering in raucous or squeaking melees whenever a bucket of slop was thrown into the filthy water or tipped across the planking. An old man squatted unselfconsciously over the edge of a walkway doing his business onto the children playing in the mud below. A crying puppy was having its eyes pecked at by crows, and at one point Nibulus tripped over a dead, rat-gnawed baby abandoned at the wayside. At least, he assumed it was rats that had gnawed it. He stared at it fixedly, until Paulus irritably booted it into the water. No one made any comment.

  Mobs of diminutive Polgs could be seen hanging around. They had short, thick black hair, long moustaches and squat legs. Their skin ranged from sallow to light brown, the complexion of leather, and their beady eyes were of the palest grey. Many wore brightly coloured shirts, but mostly their raiment was either deep green, rich earth-brown or night-blue. Most had long knives slung at the waist, some bore spears. None addressed the newcomers.

  But there was one person who smiled openly at them. As Bolldhe often noticed, in any crowd of inhospitable, staring locals there is nearly always one who welcomes the stranger in. Usually young, poor, as often as not without a family, and always male, they come up to the stranger smilingly and assume the position of guide. Though money is expected, it is rarely asked for, and even the meagrest of sums will buy help, guidance and unswerving loyalty.

  Here in Myst-Hakel, Job Ash was that one.

  ‘Wealh!’ came his shrill voice. ‘Wealh! Need frend, need frend.’

  Aware of Bolldhe’s advice, the travellers paused briefly but did not stop. Nibulus called over his shoulder to Bolldhe. ‘One of your parasites, I imagine?’

  The wanderer glanced sideways at the approaching boy but did not allow his pace to slow either. ‘Maybe not this one,’ he replied. ‘There’s always one who can be trusted to go along with. What do you reckon, Nibulus? Think we could do with a guide? Could save us time.’

  The Peladane slowed a little, and studied directly the boy hurrying down a side walkway towards them. ‘He’s on his own . . . and limping. Could be all right? Yes, I don’t see why not. Hey, boy!’

  The lad caught up with them, panting heavily but still smiling. They could not help but notice how one leg dragged behind him, the ankle twisted at an angle. His clothes were, if anything, even drabber and dirtier than his fellow citizens’, but his demeanour lacked their dourness. His hair was a grubby blond matted into several greasy spikes, his flat, squint-eyed face dirt-brown, and the smile he wore so big that the corners of his mouth almost met at the back of his head.

  ‘Good wealh,’ he trilled at the six men. ‘You frendamyne? Need bedt? Yut? I for you good bedt, good yut. You frendamyne, wealh, yes?’

  He shifted his weight nervously as the six tall strangers stared down at him, the boards squeaking under his bare feet.

  ‘Speaks a little Aescalandian,’ Nibulus observed. ‘Could be useful, that. What’s your name, boy?’

  The boy hopped about eagerly. �
��Yes, yes,’ he said. ‘I name Job Ash. I helf you something. Nice horse, nice horse. Come me, get bedt. Not from here, you. I guide all wealh.’

  ‘Wealh? Waylanders, maybe?’ asked Finwald.

  ‘Dry rooms, clean beds, lots of food, and beer,’ Nibulus asked. ‘You can do?’

  Job did not seem to understand a word he was saying, and laughed with a slight hint of desperation in his voice. ‘Yes, yes! Good wealh, cyneherjar. Nice horse. Come me,’ he replied, his eyes continually drawn to the slough-horse.

  ‘Cyneherjar?’ exclaimed Finwald in an amused tone. ‘That’s a word from the old Polg legends. He thinks we’re royal warriors.’

  ‘What century’s he living in?’ laughed Nibulus.

  ‘The same century as this whole town, by the look of it,’ Finwald commented, looking around. ‘Sounds as if they haven’t seen Peladanes, or horses either, around here for many years. Look at the boy and the way he’s eyeing Zhang.’

  ‘Yes, yes, nice horse,’ Job picked up, glancing at the mage-priest as he shuffled past him to take the lead. ‘You follow. Stroda not helf you, think bad, but I you to house. Yut, bedt. Come, come. Nice horse, too.’

  Hesitantly, they allowed themselves to be led. Bolldhe kept a tight hold on Zhang’s reins. ‘If that little bastard gets too fond of “nice horse”,’ he muttered, ‘I’ll see he limps on the other leg too.’

  Putting up with their unexpected guide for just as long as it suited them, the company allowed themselves to be led deeper into the town. Job Ash, despite his lameness, limped as sprightly as the best of them along the confusing web of walkways. He guided them through a dingy collection of ramshackle huts until they had all lost any sense of direction. On every side now the huts hemmed them in, and below them was the ever-present threat of the stagnant, oozing water that smelt like one vast latrine. Now and then they might pass over hump-backed bridges that spanned one of the wider channels, and could then see up long lines of huts all perched upon their forest of stilts. One or two of these waterways were little more than sluices of mud, with only the meagrest runnel of water trickling down the middle and maybe a grounded barge listing forlornly to one side.