The Wanderer's Tale

by David Bilsborough

  ‘As far as i know, no one but Finwald himself knew. He’s definitely up to something, that one, and whatever it is, he’s making absolutely sure none of us knows anything he doesn’t want us to know.’

  Suddenly Methuselech whirled round to face Gapp directly. ‘Tell me about the dead snake,’ he demanded. ‘Tell me!’

  Gapp hesitated. He would have laughed at such sudden interest in this surely least important detail of his story, but for the desperate intensity he now saw in the desert-man’s eyes.

  ‘. . . i don’t know,’ he replied, trying to remember what the giant had told him, ‘and neither did Yulfric. He said Finwald never let him see it, never let it out of his sight. It was just something he carried in a bag on his back. Long and thin, stiff as a board . . . but wavy.’

  ‘Oh hell it . . . it can’t be that! It can’t! It can’t! He could not be so . . . Ahh! And just when I am so close . . . !’

  ‘What’re you talking about?’ Gapp cut in. ‘You’re scaring me.’

  Methuselech stared at the boy as if suddenly remembering he was there. Then his face set in grim determination. Gapp felt he no longer knew this man.

  ‘We’ve got to get to Vaagenfjord as soon as possible,’ Methuselech stated. There was an absoluteness to that statement that would not be questioned, Gapp knew, let alone argued with. It felt to him that by simply uttering those words, Methuselech had already set the two of them inexorably on that path. Even the Vetters sensed that the council had moved on beyond their authority.

  ‘You—’

  ‘WE!’ Methuselech barked. ‘We have to get there before the others do! Quick, run and get your stuff together, then meet me back here; I’ve got to persuade Englarielle to lend us his fastest steeds.’

  ‘But . . . hold on, Xilva, i don’t think i—’

  Methuselech spun round and grasped Gapp by the shoulders.

  ‘Listen to me! We have to get to the Maw without a moment’s delay – every hour is vital. We’ll need to make for Wrythe as planned. There’s still a chance we can reach Nibulus and the others before they leave for Melhus. If they haven’t done so already.’

  ‘But i thought you said they didn’t possess the fortitude or the grace of the gods to make it.’

  ‘And one other thing,’ Methuselech said, his face just inches from the boy’s. ‘If we do find them, do not, whatever happens, do not breathe a word of what we have just discussed. Whatever your giant told you about Finwald, his secret mission, or that “dead snake” of his must, upon pain of death and everlasting torment in the fires of hell thereafter, remain strictly between me and you. Do you understand?’

  ‘i . . . no i don’t . . .’

  ‘Then just trust me!’ he cried, shaking the boy by the shoulders. There was a wild glint in his eyes that chilled Gapp. Clearly there was something dreadfully wrong that had to be sorted out before this whole business went any further. But what could he say to those eyes?

  He could meekly say, ‘i trust you,’ and nothing else.

  The mercenary let him go. ‘Good boy. Now go and fetch your stuff. And fetch mine while you’re at it; we need to be away within the hour.’

  Just as if he were still floating along that underground stream, Gapp was borne along upon a current that would not be defied. The events occurring all around him had been taken out of his hands yet again, and yet again he had lost his hold on that slick and most treacherous handrail of his own destiny. The whole of Cyne-Tregva was suddenly in an upheaval, like a breached termite nest, and Methuselech Xilvafloese was the one who was poking it with a stick.

  Messengers had come in earlier announcing that the Gyger and his hounds had left the valley. With that news, Gapp felt, the road to Vaagenfjord Maw had suddenly opened ahead of him as wide as the smile of a skull. It did mean that he would be keeping the forest hound, true, but the world now seemed a much more dangerous place than it had an hour ago.

  Whatever happened in the days to come, Gapp reflected with that familiar helpless, sinking feeling, it did not look as if he would be going back home for a while.

  True to his word, Methuselech ensured that within the hour they departed Cyne-Tregva. The boy had given up trying to question him, as the mercenary was clearly determined not to explain a thing. Englarielle, too, was bewildered at what was happening; it transpired that he and his army were to follow on, and meet them later. The Cynen had apparently agreed to this, though he could not quite remember how this had happened. His brigade was to meet up with Methuselech on the Last Shore, the narrow strip of land between the mountains and the Jagt Straits, before crossing the sea to the island of Melhus itself. Methuselech gave no reasons for this plan, saying that he had no time to explain, and that he did not know the correct words in Polg, and that ‘all would be revealed’ in the days to come. So they would just have to trust him.

  The whole of Cyne-Tregva was for the next hour, and indeed long after the stick-stirring Methuselech and his henchman had ridden out, in a state of confusion and hasty preparation. Englarielle did not have a clue how long it would take to organize a war party of fifty Vetters for a journey of such epic proportions, not having any previous experience in such matters. Aided by Gapp, Methuselech had advised him as best he could, for this was something they were used to.

  It was decided that the Vetters would ride on the Cervulus, those scimitar-horned, deer-legged creatures that Gapp had taken such a dislike to the previous day. Despite the fact that they were bipedal, the curvature of their spine meant that their prominent posterior provided a comfortable seat for the Vetters, and this was why they were so welcome in Cyne-Tregva. Indeed, the name Cervulus meant ‘Vettersteed’.

  When Gapp had found out what they would be using as mounts, his current anguish was redoubled. He was aware that he and Xilva needed something to ride, but he truly did not want to spend the next few weeks bouncing up and down on one of those things. He was back in the belvedere gathering up what few possessions still remained to them when one of the Vetter captains brought him this unwelcome news, by pointing to a line of Cervulice currently issuing from the main doorway of the pinnacle to deliberate with the Cynen.

  Gapp broke off from his chore to look out of the window at them. He instantly recognized that strange, bobbing gait that he had noted the day before, almost like a swagger that was anchored down by that enormous tail of theirs. Their three-toed velvety hooves could be heard rapping in agitation upon the wooden platform as they emerged from the doorway one by one, demanding to know what this was all about.

  He turned back to the Vetter, a wiry, tough-looking character with a distinctly sharp, severe face and pitch-black, penetrating eyes, and realized he was now holding out a knife for Gapp.

  ‘Of course,’ said the boy gratefully (having spent all this time since he had fallen down the well without a proper weapon). ‘Thank you!’

  It was, he saw, not just a knife, but one of those extraordinary, hilt-less machetes the captains had produced at the meeting. But unlike theirs, this was made from some type of bronze. It was about the same length as his old shortsword, but considerably heftier.

  He had never wielded anything like it before, and did not know if he would be able to manage it with any real proficiency, but it was at least a considerable improvement on his sickle-headed fruit-pruner.

  The Vetter pointed out a series of scratches etched into the surface of the blade. That they were in Vetter script, Gapp was in no doubt; but he was not sure what it meant. The captain pointed to the markings again, and simultaneously indicated himself.

  ‘You made this?’ Gapp finally concluded. The Vetter nodded proudly.

  ‘Then you must be the . . .’ – he imitated someone working bellows and striking metal – ‘. . . blacksmith?’

  The Vetter nodded enthusiastically. Again he pointed to the markings and then to himself, this time adding: ‘Illuei-floie aiunglla Mo’eu Tedhe.’

  ‘“Ted”,’ Gapp repeated, having only caught the last word. ‘Your name’s
Ted?’

  The Vetter continued nodding, though it was not clear if he understood the boy either.

  After ‘Englarielle’ and ‘R’rrahdh-Kyinne’, Gapp had expected something a little more impressive as a name for the community blacksmith, but . . .

  ‘Thank you, anyway, Ted,’ he said, bowing low. ‘I shall . . . treasure it. Really.’

  This must be one of the few metal weapons in the whole of Cyne-Tregva, he decided, and suddenly felt rather ashamed of his selfish feelings of anguish up till now. The honour of receiving this blade did not escape the Aescal one bit.

  His selfish feelings of anguish did, however, return with a vengeance, when he was finally brought face to face with the steeds that Englarielle had chosen for him and Methuselech. He was at first greatly relieved when his companion informed him that they would not be riding upon Vettersteed after all, but when Methuselech pointed over to where their mounts stood waiting, Gapp physically sagged with dismay.

  ‘Parandus,’ Xilva announced. ‘The Treegard of Vetterhome: Cyne-Tregva’s finest!’

  At least as large as the two antler-headed door-guardians he had slithered past the previous day, this pair of Paranduzes were quite definitely something special. They had about them what Gapp could only describe as an ‘air of excellence’. Beneath coverings of beautifully inlaid leather trimmed with the finest sable, their bodies were as sleek and muscular as thoroughbred racing stallions, and their faces long and noble. Wide, ornate silver torcs adorned their necks, and, secured by hoops along their flank, they bore the most enormous pole-axes Gapp had ever seen. The business-end of each appeared to be one great solid crescent-moon of highly lacquered, viciously sharp flint, three-quarters of which extended from one side of the haft to serve as an axe-head, the remaining quarter sticking out the other side in a spike.

  ‘Hwald and Finan will bear us well, I am assured,’ Methuselech informed him. ‘Englarielle tells me they are the swiftest there are, and fearsome in a fight. Communication with them will be a problem, but they have been told what is expected of them. I’m taking Hwald, Finan can be yours. Questions?’

  For a second or two, two pairs of large, black eyes returned the boy’s stare with an enigmatic, detached amusement, before Hwald and Finan returned to their current occupation of popping slices of marinated pear into each other’s mouths.

  ‘Just one,’ Gapp replied, after finally tearing his eyes away from the Treegard. ‘What about Shlepp?’

  Methuselech waved an irritable hand and turned away to attend to more important matters.

  ‘I suppose he’ll have to run along beside. If he can’t keep up, that’s just too bad.’

  Thus did Gapp’s brief time in Vetterhome come to an end. Just as Methuselech had announced, within the hour the two of them had mounted upon the enormous Paranduzes, rode out of Cyne-Tregva, Shlepp running alongside, and headed north.

  THIRTEEN

  Meanwhile . . .

  EVENING FOUND BOLLDHE, NIBULUS, Finwald, Appa,

  Wodeman and Paulus camped on the edge of the forest. Zhang had wandered some way off, enthusiastically partaking of the lush grass that this new part of the world was furnished with, and the smell of cooking now mingled with the unsavoury odour of damp sedge that drifted in from the marshes they had just left.

  It was only twelve hours ago that they had bidden farewell to Myst-Hakel, and they had done so with great relief. For several days they had been trying to leave that place, but no matter how hard they tried, there seemed to be one delay after another to keep them there.

  There were two main reasons for this. Firstly, Zhang had refused to budge unless he was re-shoed, and there ensued much haggling between Bolldhe and the Tusse blacksmith about what constituted a fair price. The Tusse, a now-sedentary member of the notoriously proud Mammoth Caste who went by the name of Ted, was not used to having his prices questioned, even though he did charge in sardonyx rather than zlats (about eight times the going rate) simply because Bolldhe’s group looked rich. There consequently was a fair amount of bad feeling, which led to Ted not doing a very good job. So within half a day’s journey, Zhang had thrown a shoe and was limping badly.

  The company had been forced to return to Myst-Hakel to get the job done properly (and this time for free). This would not have delayed them long if it had not been for Appa suddenly going down with a bout of swamp-fever. Wodeman tried hard to cure him, but swamp-fever was a little out of his experience. The others had been all for leaving him behind, but the old man would have none of it. It was only an incredible stubbornness that bordered on fanaticism (not to mention the fact that he was a healer himself) that got him over the worst of it, to the extent that he could now rejoin them on the road.

  Nevertheless, it did begin to look at times as if they would never leave Myst-Hakel, and they all became very jaded with the place. Bolldhe could not help feeling that this all had a very familiar ring to it.

  That should have been the last of their delays, but it just so happened that, on the very morning of their second departure, there came from the North a long, slow, rumbling sound. This began at dawn as a low rumour, as of the passing of a giant cart. But it did not pass, and instead continued without cessation, gradually growing throughout the morning until, by the time the travellers had set out, it had waxed to a thundering of seismic proportions that shook the whole land.

  Hours later, many miles to the north of Myst-Hakel and out upon higher, drier ground, the travellers found themselves sitting, stranded upon a rocky knoll, whilst below and all around them the entire corridor of land between the marshes and Fron-Wudu rolled westwards as a mighty river of monstrous brown bodies, flicking tails and tossing heads.

  The baluchitherium were on the move, and there would be no passage northwards until they passed.

  Of all their company, only Bolldhe had ever seen baluchitherium, those massive herd-beasts of the Tusse that stood at the shoulder fully three times the height of their proud herders. But even he had never seen them in such numbers; there must have been thousands of them, stretching as far as the eye could see in any direction. And the herd giants, Tusse, glancing disdainfully up at the little huddle of humans on the knoll as they passed, were in no hurry to be on their way. Massive spears that doubled as goads they carried, resting across their shoulders on the rawhide dolmans they wore over their ankle-length, berry-dyed kirtles; and across their chests an entire bandoleer of throwing-axes they wore.

  They were a rough lot, these Tusse, some might even say fierce. All over the known lands they could be found herding their beasts, whether reindeer, saiga, camel, red bison, mammoth or even Bonacon. In this part of the world it was not uncommon to find Polgs, or even humans, living among the Tusse, sharing their lives. As was the case here, in fact, for one or two human women could just be discerned amid the dust and the hordes of insects, trudging along in the traditional hooded domino-cloak and shouldering heavy panniers. Usually from aristocratic families, these renegade females would throw in their lot with the Tusse for a season or two, deigning to forgo their finery and status for the chance to ‘be free’. Often they ended up marrying their Tusse swains, and though no offspring were possible, it never seemed to stop them trying.

  And so the baluchitherium herd passed on. Beneath their elephantine feet the ground had been compacted into something harder than rock, and was piled with veritable hillocks of their excrement, through which the company now had to weave their way with towels wrapped tightly over mouth and nose.

  Eventually, however, they did succeed in leaving this wasteland well and truly behind them, and later that day they arrived at what could reasonably be considered the outer fringes of Fron-Wudu.

  Despite their relief at leaving Myst-Hakel, their mood had been somewhat subdued all day. Even the Peladane’s whistling had a sparse, forlorn quality to it. The thought that they would be entering the great forest the very next day was enough to sober even Nibulus. As the day’s march wore on they all began to get a little tetch
y, more aware now that none of them had ever passed beneath the forest’s forbidding boughs. (At least, that was what Finwald claimed.) This terrain would almost certainly prove to be their greatest test before reaching Melhus Island itself.

  Now, as the pale light in the western sky gradually faded to deepest blue, Bolldhe sat wrapped on his bedroll and studied his new sword. It was a curious blade, there was no denying. In all his travels he had never before seen its like. With that blade undulating out of the hilt like a writhing snake, there cannot have been many other weapons like it in the whole world. Not these days, anyhow. He could not see what practical purpose it might serve; it was not a fighting blade, for sure. More decorative, really – or ceremonial?

  It was then that he remembered having seen such an instrument before. Not a sword, mind, but a dagger – a Kh’is, the necromancers called them – a ceremonial knife used to sacrifice people on the altars of the temples of Olchor. Yes, he had once seen such daggers when he had travelled through the evil land of Rhelma-Find, many, many years ago now. The memory brought a troubled cloud of darkness with it, one on which Bolldhe did not care to dwell on this their first night in Fron-Wudu.

  Trying to ease himself into a lighter frame of mind, he considered the blade’s advantages. It was a heavy, out-of-date weapon, to be sure, but it was one that suited an axe-man well. Bolldhe had never been keen on swords, partly due to their association with his old Peladane cult, but also for the more pragmatic reason that he was simply not very good with them. Though he could defend himself well enough if the need arose, he was not a highly trained warrior, and as such he lacked the skill needed to handle lighter swords; but neither was he strong enough to wield the huge two-handers like Nibulus’s Greatsword or Methuselech’s shamsheer. What Bolldhe preferred was a weapon with a bit of weight and requiring little skill to wield, like a club or an axe – but nothing too hefty.