The Wanderer's Tale

by David Bilsborough

  The view from there was excellent. One could see the Blue Mountains dominating the whole of the southern horizon, stretching away on either side to disappear into the curve of the earth. To the East and West the land stretched away into infinity, an unending sweep of drab, featureless plains. As for the North, he did not care to look that way just yet. He would get plenty of opportunity to appraise that view in the days to come.

  But Nibulus was not really taking any of this in. For no matter how hard he tried to focus on what lay around him, in his mind all he could see was his dead friend’s face. That open, affectionate smile he recalled from the good times they had shared; that clumsy attempt at a serious mien when he was trying to go along with the Peladanes’ dignity . . .

  Nibulus took a deep, shaky breath and thrust the latter image of Methuselech from his mind, preferring to dwell solely upon the man’s smile. Because that’s the way he was, he pondered gloomily, his entire face would smile – not just the mouth, but the eyes, the cheeks . . . even his nostrils. Smiling nostrils! Who else in this world could do that?

  Appa rarely strayed from the confines of the temple. He had suffered more than any of them, far more than he would admit, and he had to conserve his strength. Up till now they had had it easy; he shuddered to think what Fron-Wudu, the Far North and, worst of all, Melhus Island would be like. So he wandered about the temple precinct, looking at the various wares of the craftsmen and studying the remnants of the religious imagery that, like the bygone religion itself, still clung on to Myst-Hakel like mould on a plastered wall.

  ‘A sort of fire cult,’ Nibulus had described it as. Appa peered closely at the faded icons and reliefs that were all that remained. From what he could make out, the fire-goddess – if that was what he was looking at – was a rather unremarkable female whose heavenly sanctuary bore a striking resemblance to a household hearth. In her right hand she held a poker, in her left, a coal scuttle, and there were bundles of twigs and kindling strewn about her feet. In other pictures, however, she was depicted in her more wrathful aspect, spitting out burning knots of wood and embers onto the bulrushes that served as floor mats.

  ‘Myst-Hakel . . .’ he muttered, shaking his head.

  Paulus lay abed all day. His wounds, though dressed, were still giving him problems. Nevertheless, even he seemed light-hearted compared with his usual demeanour.

  Wodeman spent most of his time wandering about the jetties, searching for odds and ends which he might be able to turn to good use: herbs, moulds, various stones and crystals, all meaningless junk to anyone but a sorcerer.

  Bolldhe just ate, drank, slept and scratched; he at least knew exactly what days off were for.

  Only Finwald remained unaccounted for. Though he had reappeared on time at noon, he only just made it. And at six o’clock he turned up half an hour late. The company had then set out to look for him, and Bolldhe had eventually found him hurrying up from the jetties, panting heavily. His clothes were stained with mud, and when Bolldhe asked him where he had been, he snapped a curt reply that he had been trying to get some solitude, ‘away from you lot’, and refused to discuss the matter further.

  ‘Five pints of Old Ropey and a packet of salted nuts, please, stout yeoman,’ Nibulus ordered in a loud voice at the bar, ‘and two each for my friends.’

  The bartender of the Kjellermann inn turned around and regarded the boorish warrior icily. Nevertheless, he began drawing the beer Nibulus was indicating from a huge puncheon behind the bar. These outlandish newcomers to town had caused quite a stir in Myst-Hakel these past twenty-four hours, and it appeared that the eager townsfolk would at last be rewarded for their patience and could observe how such foreigners behaved.

  ‘And tonight we’ll show these miserable stick-in-the-mud Stroda peasants exactly how Aescals have a good time,’ Nibulus trumpeted.

  He grabbed the first tackerde of ale from the bartender’s hand and held it up to his nose.

  ‘This, I have waited for far too long.’

  He breathed the potent vapour of the lukewarm ale deep into his lungs as though attempting to inhale himself drunk. Gasping with red-eyed exasperation, he endured the gaseous assault in his cranium with as much stoicism as he could muster, then grinned like a child as he felt a strange numbness spread into every nerve-ending in his body. The ale smelled sweet, sickly and piquant, and fizzed beneath his nose. Hauger-ale had a barrel-life of about two days, and was meant to ferment in the stomach. And Old Ropey, here, one of the strongest and vilest of all Hauger-ales, was if anything even more fleeting at its peak.

  The Peladane paused, reluctant to rush the moment, unwilling to miss out on even one sensation that this longed-for pleasure could render him. The whole pub, had he cared enough to notice it, had gone absolutely quiet as the locals stared on in fascination. Now finally they would get to see which hole foreigners drank from. Then slowly, ceremonially, Nibulus poured the ale down his throat.

  It took about five seconds for the tackerde to be drained, then he slammed it down, entirely missing the bar top, and heaved fresh air into his lungs like a drowning man.

  ‘It . . . burns! Ocht, how it . . . burns!’ he rasped in incredulity. ‘Beautiful . . . !’

  He did not die on the spot and the locals went back to their own drinking, muttering and nodding with approval.

  ‘Come on, Bolldhe,’ Nibulus proclaimed. ‘You look like you could do with some of this too. I’m buying this round – least I can do for you after rescuing us back in the woods.’

  Bolldhe could not suppress a smile, and gratefully accepted the big warrior’s token of friendship. He had not tasted Hauger-ale before, and now seemed the perfect opportunity.

  ‘Your health,’ he gestured to the Peladane at his side. ‘Wodeman, how about you?’

  The shaman had also decided to join in the spirit of the occasion. There were several reasons for this, amongst them the need, as he saw it, to draw Bolldhe into the camaraderie of the group, and thus draw him out of his silent shell. He was also anxious to prove that the Torca’s reputation for drinking themselves insensible was an unfair slander.

  ‘I never touch a drop of the hard stuff,’ he assured them, and to prove it spent the whole evening touching only ale.

  And went on proving it until the early hours, just to make sure.

  Finwald and Appa kept themselves to a table by the fire. They too felt in need of a relaxing drink, but preferred a more sensible brew. Finwald sparingly poured a clear, sticky liquid into his glass, which went by the unlikely appellation of Xambadabuubaa, whilst the old priest contented himself with nursing a steaming, spicy and fruity wassailing cup.

  Only Paulus isolated himself from the company. He could not stand the thought of sitting all alone in that empty temple-dormitory whilst his companions were busy enjoying themselves downtown, so he decided to sit all alone here instead. In truth, he had at first refused the Peladane’s invitation to join them, preferring to wander about the docking areas, his black sword at the ready to take on any of these locals who might dare to so much as scowl at him. He knew the others had only asked him to join them because they felt they had to. Out of embarrassment, more than anything, he thought bitterly.

  But in the end his innate acrimony had spent itself, and he had wandered in an hour after they had. Now he sat with his back to them all, in another part of the tavern, ignoring them completely.

  No sooner had he sat down than the table’s other occupants got up and left. Not a word was said in any language, but the deformed mercenary did not need to ask to know why they had departed so abruptly. This kind of thing was happening to him all the time, and in part explained his discomfort in joining in. Now he silently ignored the bar’s laughing punters, and sat all alone drinking.

  The sound of his companions’ revelries (or rather, the Peladane’s) rose above the general hubbub of the throng. Once Paulus was sure he heard his name mentioned, his second name, followed by a burst of laughter. He grimaced and turned away, only to fin
d himself facing the group of young couples sitting around the next table. The lads looked relaxed and healthy, and the girls surprisingly pretty for this town. They were laughing and fondling each other excitedly, apparently without a care in the world. Occasionally the girls’ sparkling eyes would stray in his direction, narrow in disgust and turn back to their handsome swains.

  Paulus winced in almost physical pain: this hurt him more than anything the world could throw at him. He felt sick with the emptiness inside him, and breathed deeply to suppress the first tremors of a fit. As usual he sought refuge from the cruelties of the world in another glass of ale, as hurt and bitterness turned into hatred once again.

  A group of players had set up in one corner of the Kjellermann, and the whole place now resounded to the pounding beat of tymbal and bodhran and the wail of the lur. Even the rats were dancing on the windowsills, and on every side the good folk of Myst-Hakel were joining in. Through this press of dancing revellers Bolldhe pushed his way over to stand next to the shaman.

  ‘Wodeman,’ he began, trying not to be overheard by his other companions, ‘how many dreams have you given me so far?’

  The sorcerer sobered up immediately, and the whole room suddenly seemed very quiet to him. Caught unawares, he wiped the ale from his moustache and stared up at the wanderer. This man certainly did not beat about the bush.

  ‘What makes you ask such a question now?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean,’ Wodeman replied, ‘that this is the first time you have ever come to me over such matters. Till now it’s always been the other way round.’

  Bolldhe acknowledged this with a nod, but held his tongue until he could find the right words. He felt more on his guard now than at any other moment during their journey together, but knew that sooner or later he would have to bring the matter up.

  ‘I’ve had plenty of dreams so far on this little escapade, but for all I know they got nothing to do with you . . .’

  Wodeman’s face-foliage barely hid the artful smile that tweaked the corners of his mouth. ‘Until what . . . ?’

  Bolldhe now knew, or could guess well enough, the answer to his pressing question: Wodeman had been behind his vision three nights earlier. He turned away, sombre and sulky. He hated having to confide in anyone.

  Then he heard Wodeman say, ‘That night, all I wanted to do was to contact you, and get help. We had to do something to escape—’

  Bolldhe cut in, ‘It really was you, then.’ His eyes moistened, and he had to clear his throat before going on. ‘All those miles I’d travelled, and you still managed to get inside my head. I’d wondered if it was, well, just male intuition.’

  ‘Mailing tuition?’ Wodeman queried. ‘Well, in a way it was, I mean, it was a message—’

  ‘Male – Intuition,’ Bolldhe corrected him. ‘Like female intuition, only it works.’

  Wodeman could sense the feeling of intrusion that Bolldhe was now experiencing, but had to strike while the iron was hot.

  ‘You too have felt a closeness to the Earth-Spirit, have you not?’ he questioned. Bolldhe looked at him without expression, waiting for him to go on.

  ‘That night in the cave two weeks ago, before the Leucrota attacked, you opened your mind to Erce. I know, I could feel the searching of your soul.’

  Bolldhe looked down and studied the dregs in his tackerde. The hedge-wizard was perceptive, if nothing else. While they had discussed religion, Bolldhe had indeed opened his mind; opened it to questions he had secretly been asking himself for years and years. But there had never yet been any answer.

  ‘But three nights ago I was interrupted,’ Wodeman continued. ‘The Skela would not allow it. Always they seek to hide things from us. I don’t think they can stand the truth. The rune of Ignorance seems fated to play a heavy hand in this game we play, right up to the end. But your dream, Bolldhe, the real dream, the one I sent you after that . . . Would you tell me about it?’

  ‘My . . . dream?’ Bolldhe replied absently.

  ‘Yes, it is important for me to know. ’

  ‘Forget it,’ Bolldhe replied.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said forget it. Don’t go poking around in my head again. If anything need doing, I’ll do it. Just leave me alone.’

  It was said quietly, without menace, but the message was clear. And Wodeman left it at that.

  Just then a dark shadow fell across Bolldhe, and the earthy odours of Wodeman were replaced by an earthy smell of a more grave-like origin.

  ‘We hang our dead from trees,’ came the accompanying voice.

  Bolldhe turned around and found himself face-to-chest with the Nahovian. He had cast his hood back, despite the crowds, and wore an expression that Bolldhe had never seen before. A thin line of ale trickled down his chin, turning the black stubble white as it went, and he appeared to have something on his mind.

  ‘You what?’

  ‘From trees,’ Paulus repeated. ‘When we die, we of Vregh-Nahov are hung from the lower branches of the trees, in the deeps of the woods. The beasts then decide which Chapter of the Chlan the dead’s next of kin will be initiated into. The first beast that eats of the flesh of the cadaver, that is the Chapter selected. My own father was first pecked at by crows . . .’

  Bolldhe had not the slightest clue what was going on here. He now wished he had stuck with the sorcerer. What had this got to do with anything?

  ‘That’s all very interesting, Paulus,’ he stammered, ‘but I’m drinking, here.’

  ‘Don’t you see?’ Paulus suddenly moaned, and Bolldhe recognized now the pleading in the mercenary’s eyes. The man was trying to reach out to him. ‘Who would ever bear me a son? And even if I had one, he would have no Chapter. For what wild creature would be desperate enough to partake of my rotting flesh!?’

  Paulus registered the utter blankness in Bolldhe’s face and turned away. What was the point?

  Just then a loud bellowing laugh burst in upon Bolldhe’s bemusement. Nibulus, a young woman in hand, staggered over to the table and went crashing over it. Mugs and plates went flying, and those sitting nearest held their hands up protectively in front of their faces. Both Nibulus and his voluptuous new friend crumpled in a laughing heap upon the floor.

  Everyone was staring, and Bolldhe went red. Appa wiped beer off himself in disgust and would have nothing to do with his leader at all. Nibulus, meanwhile, made no attempt to get up; he simply lay there on the floor laughing hysterically.

  ‘Imbecile!’ he heard Appa hiss vehemently.

  Finwald, smiling, heaved the big man off the floor and settled him on a low stool.

  ‘You going to diddle her up, then?’ He nodded towards the fleshy wench.

  Nibulus looked over to her, smiling inanely, then suddenly snapped back to reality.

  ‘No!’ he roared. ‘Are you joking? My wife would kill me.’

  At this, Bolldhe pushed his tackerde away. This was all becoming too surreal to cope with.

  ‘Your wife?’ he exclaimed in astonishment.

  Finwald grinned again. ‘Remember that woman who waylaid him just before we rode out of Nordwas?’

  ‘What, you mean the one demanding money?’

  ‘That’s her!’ Nibulus beamed.

  ‘You sound surprised, Bolldhe,’ Finwald commented.

  ‘Well, it’s just . . . money . . . not the sort of thing I myself would expect at a last farewell,’ Bolldhe explained, clearly in virgin territory here.

  ‘You’ve obviously not had much experience with women, son.’ Nibulus smiled.

  Finwald turned back to Bolldhe and whispered, matter-of-factly, ‘Anyway, don’t believe any of that rubbish Wodeman was telling you earlier; he’s had too much beer. Just put your trust in your sword.’ And with that, he got up to leave the pub. As he walked out of the door, he was swallowed up by swamp-mist and darkness.

  Bolldhe wished he had never travelled to Nordwas in the first place. What the hell was wrong with these p
eople? But just as he was about to order another huge tackerde of Old Ropey, he suddenly thought to himself: Funny thing for a mage-priest to suggest . . . Anyway, I haven’t even got a sword.

  Later that evening as Bolldhe left the pub, his head was still buzzing loudly with the music, the noise and the dizzying effects of potent Hauger-ale. After tripping over several times, he eventually reached the temple gate. But just as he was about to enter, he turned back and gazed at the midnight blackness of the swamp. He could not see a thing there.

  And into his mind came the words of Wodeman: ‘The rune of Ignorance seems fated to play a heavy hand in this game, right up to the end.’

  These words were still racing around his confused and inebriated brain when he noticed the dark shape slip out through one of the windows of their dormitory and race away into the darkened alleys beyond. It was clutching a sack – and a large broadaxe.

  ‘Oy, that’s mine!’ Bolldhe cried in amazement. ‘Come back here, you bloody thief!’

  Incensed, he plunged after the burglar. It was a chase that saw him fall flat on his face more than once, slam into walls and snag his garments at every turn. The thief was quick, but Bolldhe was determined not to lose sight of him. He had owned that broadaxe for more years than he cared to remember, and though he bore no particular love for the weapon itself, he did bear a deep-seated loathing for thieves. He chased the fleeing figure down through the streets of the old town, off the knoll via one of the alarmingly springy footbridges, and onto the encircling dyke. The thief sprinted along the path running along the top of the dyke, looking back at the panting and spluttering pursuer.

  All of a sudden it leapt off the dyke and headed sure-footedly for a lengthy walkway leading out into the marshes.