. . . Oh.
Gapp halted exactly where he was and went cold, hot and numb, all at the same time. For the Vetters seemed to be cutting up and cooking one of their own.
On the slab it lay, an aged Vetter slit open from throat to groin, its skin pulled right back off the bones and its sternum split in two and wrenched open like the doors of a bird-cage. Much of its insides had already been removed, and stood about the place deposited in little pots. The knotted rope that had been used to strangle it still dangled limply from its neck.
There was a sickening, crunching sound as one of the butchers began splitting the victim’s skull with a stone knife. Very carefully and with great precision he worked, as did his fellows. There was almost a reverence in the way they moved. One slowly popped the limb bones out of their gristly sockets, while another was efficiently scraping all the flesh from them and placing it also in the pots. Two were involved in the cooking, while an entire team were extracting the marrow. The whole spectacle resembled a production line: a Vetter-processing plant.
A word used by the Gyger now came back to Gapp’s semi-paralysed mind: cannibals.
‘Ah! Hal, Seelva – Hal, R’rrahdnar!’ came a familiar voice, and Englarielle stepped out from the midst of the pall of stinking smoke. He too was arrayed in a long feathered robe, as were the group of sullen-faced Vetters with whom he had been conversing. Each held one of the little pots, and was dunking into it what looked like a finger of toast. The Cynen offered a similar pot to each of his guests and gestured towards a small side table, upon which rested baskets of these toasted ‘soldiers’, together with jars of relish, beakers of fruit juice, and a kind of tree-frog kedgeree.
‘Hope you’ve got an appetite, young Greyboots,’ Methuselech murmured at Gapp’s side. ‘Looks like breakfast’s ready . . .’
It was their way, Gapp kept reminding himself. Just their way. The Vetter victim had been old, not far from death anyway, and out here only the strong survived. In Fron-Wudu, you pulled your own weight or you dropped out – or were dropped.
‘. . . normally killed by members of his own family,’ Methuselech was translating as he and Gapp partook of the feast. ‘It’s not the most agreeable of deaths, but at least it’s better to die like this, at the hands of your loved ones, than to be carried off by some wild creature.’
The words of the mercenary, though reassuring in some ways, did little for Gapp’s appetite as he dunked the toast soldiers into the salty, beetroot-hued slurry in his bowl.
The repast eventually came to an end, and most of the Vetters gradually filed out of the chamber, nodding respectfully to the Cynen as they went. One of them – the eldest son of the deceased, Gapp was told – was presented with the flayed skin of his father as he departed, either to hang upon his wall at home or to wear during the ritual dance that would be held that night. As he pleased.
It had not been the easiest of killings, it seemed, for the victim had taken some persuading before reluctantly agreeing to be sacrificed. But there was to be a feast of great importance upon this day, and such a sacrifice was vital to propitiate the spirits.
All things considered, both victim and son had taken it quite well, really.
Now only Englarielle and a handful of Vetters – his ‘higher-ups’ – remained with the humans, and they all took their places around the table that moments ago had held the gradually disappearing remains of the sacrifice.
The Cynen now placed upon his own head some kind of helmet. It was at least a size too big for the Vetter; this was compensated for by skilled padding, but still it looked absurdly incongruous. To Gapp it had the basic look of a sallet helm of the style used by Peladanes over a century ago, but it had been elaborated to suit the Vetter’s taste, for it now bore the head and upper jaw of a large, crested reptile (with slits for the eyes when the visor was down) and the neck-guard was covered over with snakeskin.
Then Englarielle solemnly brought out an axe and placed it ceremoniously upon the table.
Oh dear, Gapp thought with trepidation, this doesn’t look good.
The weapon had clearly travelled far across both time and distance. From an unknowable culture, this hefty axe of some metal that looked more like lead than anything else, was smelted into the shape of a gyag’s jawbone, teeth and all. Like the helm, it was antiquated, but it glistened with a fresh coating of bear’s fat.
The other Vetters also had their weapons out. Unlike the gyag-axe, theirs were some kind of bizarre and brutal machete, seemingly all blade and no hilt. There was an oval slot at one end for their fingers to go through, the rest forming an entire length of heavy chopping blade. By the look of them, they had been fashioned with unique skill (and no small amount of relish) not from metal but from bone – namely, the sharpened scapula-bones of their enemies, the Jordiske.
This meeting was starting to take on the air of a war council, and Gapp did not like it at all. He had attended many such meetings at Wintus Hall, and knew just how long they could drag on for. At the back of his mind he wished he had asked for a couple more slices of Vetter to keep him going.
In actual fact, Gapp did like it a little, this sudden feeling of importance. Up until now the only role he had played in any of the war councils he had attended was as dogsbody to his master. On this occasion, however, he was actually going to be consulted – maybe even listened to – and the novelty was not wasted on him.
Nevertheless, he was not keen to get involved in anything that might hinder his speedy return home, not for any sense of self-importance.
‘Tell him we’re leaving now, Xilva,’ he whispered urgently into his companion’s ear. ‘We don’t want to get caught up in whatever this is.’
Methuselech merely nodded, apparently sharing none of the boy’s misgivings.
‘Englarielle,’ he spoke up before the proceedings had a chance to start, and went on to say something to the Cynen in that Polg dialect that Gapp could not interpret at all.
‘I’m just explaining that both of us thank the chief with undying gratitude for his hospitality,’ he clarified after a moment, ‘and that our stay here has been one of unsurpassed bliss, but on the morrow we shall be departing for Wrythe.’
Wrythe! What are you talking about? i’m not going to Wrythe!
Gapp glanced at the Vetters, trying to read their reaction. This was all getting out of hand. Surprisingly, though, Englarielle seemed quite happy about this as he gave his reply.
‘What did he say?’ Gapp asked.
The other half-smiled. ‘He says that was what he already thought, and he wants to come with us.’
‘Ah.’
The meeting was a confusing affair. What with Methuselech having to translate everything that Englarielle said, and Englarielle having to translate everything his captains said, and the four other Vetters all talking at the same time, and each seemingly determined to speak louder than the rest, there seemed to be little understanding at all. Besides, Gapp (chiding himself for ever allowing himself to believe it could be otherwise) felt that no one was listening to him anyway. Indeed, Methuselech was clearly not bothering to translate anything the esquire said to the Vetters. And as everybody seemed to be at odds with each other, little was decided on. Before long, tempers became frayed.
The issues were actually quite simple. Englarielle had accepted the idea that Drauglir had now become a genuine threat to all the lands of Lindormyn, including his own, even though neither he nor any of his people had ever even heard of the Rawgr before now. He was all for raising an army of his best guards and hunters and joining Methuselech on a crusade against Drauglir, now that it appeared unlikely that Nibulus’s party were going to make it.
It turned out that Methuselech, during his stay here at Cyne-Tregva, had talked at length with Englarielle about the Quest, about Drauglir, and about the ancient battles between the Rawgr and the Fasces. He had also discoursed in great, rousing detail about Melhus and the lands of the Far North. Whatever he had said, it must have been ora
tory surpassing that of the greatest skalds back home, for the fires of adventure had been kindled in the Vetter’s heart to the extent that he was now hell-bent upon raising an army, just like the heroes of old, and himself storming the gates of Vaagenfjord Maw.
Gapp had no way of knowing whether Englarielle genuinely considered this threat was a real one, or if he had simply become impassioned with the thought of going forth on an epic adventure. But whatever the Vetter’s motivations were, they were clearly not shared by all of his captains, who seemed almost as baffled as to their Cynen’s strange notions as Gapp was.
More to the point, Gapp just could not understand why Methuselech – on the whole a sensible man – had told the Vetter all this heroic stuff. And not just told him, but knowingly stirred him so, filling his impressionable head with things he could not possibly fully appreciate or even comprehend. The Vetterym, from what Gapp had seen of them, were an isolated race, naive, unworldly-wise, and with very simple values. He glared at the mercenary sourly for letting their secret out so readily. But Methuselech seemed quite content with the proceedings.
There was a short recess for refreshments, during which Englarielle took his recalcitrant captains aside and repeatedly slapped them around the heads, and Gapp tried to do the same in a way with his companion.
‘Xilva,’ he began, unsure how exactly to talk with his former master’s near-equal, ‘you can’t surely wish to drag the Vetterym into all this. It’s got nothing to do with them.’
‘Nothing to do with them?’ Methuselech flared, and Gapp knew he had overstepped the mark again almost before he had even started. ‘If you understood anything at all, my lad, then you’d know that this has everything to do with them. I guess you believe that the Evil from Melhus would simply pass them by and not bother with them, eh?’
‘Well, no,’ Gapp admitted, feeling the full weight of the Asyphe warrior’s superiority bear down upon him, ‘but i don’t believe an army of Vetters would be any . . . that is, they don’t really . . .’
He trailed off, as he always did when trying to get a point across to his betters. During his time with the forest giant, he had laughed at his former deference and servility, both angry and amused at himself for having been so feeble. But now that he was back among them again . . .
Then he thought of the mines and the Jord-cave and all he had had to do to survive them . . . and the scornful look that Methuselech was giving him now. His anger flared up.
‘They know nothing of what lies beyond the forest,’ Gapp exclaimed, ‘and when trouble comes – which it will, because they are not supported by an entire Toloch of Peladanes – how are they going to be able to cope with it? Eh? They don’t know about the Dead, or rawgrs, and . . . what about the ice-fields, and all?’
He finally plucked up courage enough to look the mercenary straight in the eye. This was real daring, no doubt about that. But as soon as he did, he was dismayed to see that Methuselech was neither angry nor impressed. In fact he hardly even seemed aware that the boy had spoken. To Gapp, he looked just like his parents would: that same distracted air, that look that said not only that he did not think it necessary to listen to the boy, but he did not think it necessary to even pretend to listen to him.
But there was one difference between Methuselech and his parents, Gapp could tell; the mercenary, for some reason that eluded him for the present, actually needed the boy. At length, with a patient but resigned irritation, he turned to the esquire. ‘I’m sure they’re more capable of looking after themselves than you give them credit for,’ he replied. ‘You lack confidence in them because you see them for what they appear—’
‘Bola-wielding weasels,’ Gapp agreed.
‘But I tell you this,’ Methuselech went on, ignoring this last remark. ‘I’ve got to know them well during my stay; and they’re a hardy and resourceful race. Englarielle is a leader of singular ability, and much loved by his people. Look around you! You’ve witnessed yourself the wonders of Cyne-Tregva, the royal dwelling – is it not a marvel beyond description? Who but the Vetterym could have conceived, let alone actually constructed, this miracle of building? And all without the tools available to other races. I tell you, Radnar, if any people can look after themselves, the Vetterym can.’
‘That’s not the point and you know it!’ Gapp snapped. He had started this now, and he was going to finish; it was all the way, no turning back. ‘Building tree-houses and campaigning have got nothing to do with each other. What d’you think they’re going to do? Surround the whole of Vaagenfjord Maw with a stockade and shove it all up a tree?’
This is good! thought the esquire. This I can really get into! Ah, the Liberation! The Justice! He was experiencing a kind of soaring that he could not explain, but that he knew felt so good, so right.
‘And furthermore,’ he went on, waxing grandiloquent, ‘what right have we to drag innocents into the bloody . . . waves of conflict that they would not be otherwise be . . . that is, not . . .’ – Keep going! Don’t stop! – ‘. . . good. And I seriously doubt that any help the Vetterym might avail us’ – Avail? Yes! Yes! Gapp for Warlord! Gapp for Warlord! – ‘could exultate the danger into which we are placing them.’
There! He had done it. He had spoken up for himself against a warrior. He had risen to their heights.
‘Exculpate,’ Methuselech said.
‘. . . What?’
‘Exculpate. Could exculpate the danger,’ the mercenary corrected him.
Gapp’s deflation was almost audible. He was a little boy once again.
Methuselech, however, was taken aback a little, and for the first time regarded the esquire with his full attention. Now that he did, he was not sure exactly how he was supposed to talk with the lad.
‘Look, Radnar,’ he said, ‘I know what I said yesterday about hoping to meet up with your master and the rest. And it’s true that I am going on to Wrythe. But it isn’t with any real hope that I’ll be reunited with them. I’m going there simply because it’s the last place where we can get any proper food and shelter before the final push. More to the point, its the only place where we stand a hope of finding a boat to get us across the straits.’
(‘We’? ‘Us’?)
‘Even if Nibulus and the others are alive, they probably won’t survive the forest as you and I have. They’re not blessed as we are; neither with the fortitude that is ours nor the grace of the gods that goes with us . . .’
He’s talking to me like Nibulus does with his soldiers, Gapp thought, like Thegnes always do when they want people to follow them into a fight. What’s his problem? Has Xilva forgotten how he himself used to speak to people, so he has to imitate others now?
‘. . . And if that celestial grace chooses to place an army into our hands, well, who are we to throw the gifts of the gods back in their faces?’
The old obliqueness had returned to Methuselech’s eyes. He had said all he needed to this boy.
Englarielle and the Vetters started filing back up the steps to resume the meeting, and Methuselech turned towards them.
‘You’re forgetting one thing, Xilva,’ Gapp said then. ‘We don’t have any magical weapons. How are we going to do the job, eh?’
Methuselech thought about this detail for a moment. ‘Magical or silver,’ he reminded the esquire. ‘That’s what Finwald said. And that’s even more reason to go to Wrythe; I’m sure we’ll have no trouble finding a silversmith there with enough skill to fashion a simple blade. They are renowned for it.’
Gapp considered this, never having heard say up till now that the people of Wrythe were ‘renowned silversmiths’. But he was unable to bring his thoughts into any order, for there was something at the back of his mind, something that he had found out during his recent wanderings, that tied in with all this. He could not remember what it was, and now he saw with increasing frustration that the Vetters were waiting for him.
‘Come along, then,’ Methuselech said briskly as he turned to follow them into the chamber. ‘The
council’s back on, and don’t you worry about magical weapons. Nibulus didn’t have any of those things either; they themselves only had a silver blade.’
Finwald’s silver blade –
‘Finwald!’ Gapp exclaimed. ‘Of course!’
Methuselech half-turned, and looked at him blankly. ‘Pardon?’
‘Finwald,’ Gapp went on, needing no grandiloquence now. ‘That’s what i was trying to remember. When i was staying at Yulfric’s, he explained that two years ago he’d taken in another traveller from Nordwas who’d got lost just as i had, and when i asked what the man’s name was, he said it was Finwald!’
‘. . . !’
‘Yes, our Finwald! The description fitted exactly, even down to the silver Torch amulet, the alchemist’s books . . . and a dead snake in a bag.’
‘Dead what?’
‘Oh, nothing, i couldn’t really make any sense of that last bit. But the point is, he was on his way to Wrythe on his own but he couldn’t manage it, so he went back home and never breathed a word of the whole escapade to anyone.’
They both stared at each other, their minds in a whirl, the impatient Vetters now forgotten.
‘Why would Finwald be going to Wrythe, and on his own . . . and then remain so secretive about it?’ Methuselech asked.
‘According to Yulfric, he was on some preaching mission, but got lost in the woods on the way. By the time Yulfric found him he was half-starved and exhausted, with no idea where he was. Apparently, he vowed never to come up this way again and, once he was recovered, he left saying he was returning to Nordwas.’
‘Finwald on a preaching mission?’ Methuselech murmured, every bit as sceptical as Gapp had been.
‘That’s what i thought, too. And to Wrythe, of all places. Makes you think, doesn’t it?’
‘Nibulus wasn’t in on this, was he?’ Methuselech quizzed the esquire. ‘Or anyone else? You didn’t know about it, did you?’
The Wanderer's Tale Page 45
