The Wanderer's Tale

by David Bilsborough

  ‘Don’t you worry about Zhang,’ Bolldhe replied. ‘He’ll be the last one to panic, I assure you. Besides, if there’s any trouble, I wouldn’t mind finding out what this sword is capable of.’

  As soon as he said it he chided himself; there was no need for Kuthy to know anything about the flamberge, or their mission.

  ‘I’d be careful, Bolldhe,’ Finwald whispered in his left ear. ‘You don’t want to risk damaging it unnecessarily.’

  ‘For Jugg’s sake, preacher,’ Bolldhe hissed, ‘it’s a bloody sword! What in hell’s name am I supposed to do with it? Skin rabbits?’

  ‘He’s right, Bolldhe,’ Appa cautioned. ‘Don’t be too quick to solve all your problems with the sword. Only death lies down that road.’

  I thought that was the whole idea of this quest, Bolldhe reflected, but did not bother to share this thought with his uninvited counsellors.

  There was a little whispering from ahead, and soon Kuthy appeared beside him. ‘If you do want to try out your new sword,’ he whispered, ‘why not go on ahead? I’ll stay and mind your horse.’

  ‘Oh, really,’ Bolldhe replied. ‘I suppose you’d like to hold my coat while you’re at it?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Anyway, I thought you said there was nothing dangerous down there?’

  ‘That’s right,’ the shadowed face before him replied smoothly. ‘There wasn’t, last time. But you saw the unlocked door – something may have wandered in since I was last here. And you’re the one with the big sword . . . What’s so special about it anyway? Haven’t you ever used it?’

  Bolldhe cut him off swiftly. ‘Just shut up and go away! Look, take the damn horse if you must, and get him to the back of the line.’ He handed the reins to Kuthy and pushed his way past him and Nibulus, before the soldier of fortune could ask any more difficult questions. Kuthy hung back and let the rest of the line pass by. He grinned, and followed at a distance.

  Minutes later, the company emerged one by one into the chamber. It was dank and freezing, and here the stench of decay was almost overwhelming. All eyes strained to see beyond the feeble radius of torchlight, until the Zhang-borne lantern arrived.

  ‘Ugh!’ Finwald whispered in disgust. ‘What is this place?’

  They paired off and carefully explored the chamber. The sound of their boots upon the stone mingled with the sputtering of torches and the occasional sharp intake of breath.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ the Peladane stated flatly. ‘It reeks of death.’

  He cast his torch about and surveyed the walls. They were simple and undecorated, carved out of the mountain to form a roughly rectangular chamber. From somewhere beyond the light of his torch, the cold wind still blew.

  Just then the glow of his torch fell upon a pile of rags on the floor. Nibulus went over to look closer, holding one hand over his mouth and nose against the growing stink. Yes, as he had suspected, they were corpses, partly rotted and crumpled in a heap against one wall.

  ‘Hsss!’ he called out. ‘Over here!’

  The rest of the company moved over and stood around the two cadavers at a respectful distance, inspecting them with distaste.

  ‘Two weeks old, I’d guess,’ Nibulus said, ‘judging by the state of the skin.’

  ‘Two months, I’d guess,’ Bolldhe commented, ‘judging by the smell.’

  ‘Yes,’ Finwald agreed. ‘Not very nice at all.’

  With the tip of his sword, Bolldhe poked one of the corpses. It shifted a little, crumpling slightly, and there was a brief buzz from inside it. Then its head fell off. Paulus laughed.

  ‘Who do you think they are?’ Nibulus asked Kuthy, who had now come up from behind. ‘And what happened to them?’ There was no mistaking his meaning.

  ‘They’re nobody I know, if that’s what you mean,’ Kuthy replied defensively. ‘It’s been a long time since I was here last . . . Let’s have a closer look.’

  He went over and prodded them roughly with his own sword, causing a further angry humming noise from within. There was a popping sound, followed by the hiss of escaping gases, then the ribcage of one of them collapsed. The others stepped right back in distaste, save for Paulus.

  ‘Oh look!’ Kuthy exclaimed with a smile, lifting a small drawstring leather bag from the crumpled debris on the floor. He undid the strings and poured out a small collection of shiny emeralds into his palm.

  ‘Jackpot,’ he breathed in excitement. ‘This should make up for my sledge and dog-team, and more besides!’

  Appa spat in repugnance. ‘Surely you’re not going to rob the dead! Have you no respect?’

  ‘Er, no, don’t think so,’ Kuthy responded absently, and fingered through the gleaming little gems in his hand.

  ‘Well, we have,’ Nibulus stated, ‘and we’re not having anything to do with these corpses. No good can ever come of robbing the dead.’

  ‘Possibly less harm than robbing the living,’ Kuthy chuckled, clearly very pleased with himself. ‘Anybody else want to have a look? They’re bound to have something else on them besides.’

  ‘No we do not,’ Nibulus growled. ‘Now, please would you put away your precious little jewels and let’s move on. Whatever killed these two might still be hanging around here somewhere.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say no,’ Paulus replied to Kuthy’s suggestion, and promptly set about searching the corpses. The others wrinkled their faces as they watched the mercenary delve his hands into each bundle of rags and bones. ‘Many of these adventurer types have gold teeth.’ He prised open their trap-like mouths and peered inside.

  They left him to his necrophile preoccupations and went off to search the rest of the chamber. Suddenly Appa noticed a series of scratches etched upon the stone.

  ‘Finwald, over here! I’ve found some writing on the wall.’

  He beckoned his brother-in-faith over, and pointed to the characters with trembling fingers.

  Finwald stared at them curiously, and read: ‘Fahscheia ul ichnaia Cerddu-Sungnir and Bolca og Yngstre Kvascna uilldacht okkin-veik Pericciu . . .’

  ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘How should I know? I’m just a priest, not a bloody linguist.’

  ‘“Cerddu-Sungnir the Supreme was here” and “Death to the scum of Pericciu Thieves Guild”,’ a voice behind them translated. It was Kuthy, speaking from the safety of the entrance tunnel. ‘Either these two were thieves belonging to that guild, or just a pair of treasure hunters who stopped here for a rest, and got themselves killed by something lurking in the passage beyond.’

  For a moment there was a pensive silence. ‘Enemies of the Pericciu Thieves Guild,’ Finwald muttered, ‘or guild members themselves . . . ? I wonder why either would be trying to get into Eotunlandt.’

  ‘They left enough litter behind them,’ Wodeman commented. ‘I can’t believe there were only two of them. There must have been more.’

  ‘I don’t think we should stay any longer,’ Nibulus announced, unfastening his armour from Zhang’s back and putting it on. ‘I think there is a guardian down here.’

  Just then they were distracted by a shout from Paulus. He was holding something shiny in his hand. It appeared to be a kind of punch-dagger, the sort used by foot soldiers or assassins for piercing armour, and more especially the spinal column that lay beneath. Its squat, V-shaped blade glinted sharply in the torchlight.

  ‘Diamond-tipped katar,’ the mercenary proclaimed with elation. ‘That’ll do nicely.’

  Nibulus cursed to himself as he tried to fasten the straps on his plastron. ‘Some secret tunnel!’ he swore under his breath. ‘I’d wager every thief in Lindormyn knows about it.’

  Bolldhe was not listening to any of this. He was studying Wodeman, whose bearing had gone suddenly taut and poised. Something in the way he sniffed the air told Bolldhe that they were not alone here in the chamber.

  Then all of a sudden there was a terrific beating of wings, and a piercing squawk shivered the air to pieces. Immediately both
mage-priests dropped their torches and went for their weapons, while someone backing into Paulus knocked the torch from his grasp. There was a brief flare of orange light as the burning brand arced through the air, trailing a streamer of acrid smoke behind it. Then the chamber was plunged into near darkness, lit only by the diminishing glow of the torches dropped on the floor.

  For the next minute the whole place rang with the din of battle. Everybody was shouting in confusion and swinging about wildly, not knowing what it was they were fighting against, or where or how many there were. Above the metallic clash of arms, the dull thuds, the cries of pain and the curses, rose the furious flapping of feathered wings and that terrible squawking cry.

  A blade hummed through the air and imbedded itself into something soft. ‘Uurghh! Get off me! That’s my arm – aargh!’

  Something was hurled across the room to shatter against the far wall. ‘It’s over there!’

  ‘What is it? Bolldhe, is that you?’

  ‘Stay back! I’ve got it by the – Ocht, my leg! My bloody leg!’

  ‘Where are those stupid priests? Finwald! Appa! Someone, just grab those torches!’

  From somewhere nearby Bolldhe heard Zhang neighing in alarm. He dived over to where the horse was, sweeping up a torch from the floor just before it went out. Then he tripped over somebody lying on the floor and went plummeting. The last thing he saw in the light of the brand as it went spinning from his grasp was the frightened, staring face of Zhang. Then his head somersaulted in a chaos of bilious colours, and Bolldhe knew no more.

  When he came to, Bolldhe felt as if his head had split open and spilt its viscous contents upon the ground for all to tread in and slip on, then poured back in and the skull repaired with rusty nails. All around him he could hear the shuffling of booted feet upon stone, and voices mumbling in hushed tones. Tentatively he lifted his head and risked opening his eyes.

  Straight away the light from a thousand suns penetrated his fragile corneas and the jellied brain that cowered behind them. He shut his eyes instantly and groaned. His head swam in the deepest throes of nausea, and he clutched it tightly in his hands as if to hold it in one piece.

  ‘Whatappn’d?’ he croaked, ‘Wherem’I?’

  Nearby, one of the disembodied voices hesitated, then snorted contemptuously. ‘Too much Hauger-ale,’ it chided. ‘Typical Pendonians – never could hold their drink.’

  Bolldhe gingerly re-opened his eyes, then propped himself up on his elbow. ‘Do be quiet, Wintus,’ he moaned. ‘I’m not in the mood for your weak attempts at humour. Anyway, what did happen? What attacked us, and where is it now? Is it dead?’

  Nibulus did not answer at once. But when he did, his voice sounded sick. ‘It’s not here any more. It flew away. And we’d better be off too if we’re to—’

  ‘Flew away? You mean you drove it off? The Guardian?’

  ‘Not exactly. We – that is, Wodeman – let it go. He said it wasn’t right for a creature of the air to be imprisoned here in the earth.’

  Bolldhe was already in too much pain to raise either his voice or his blood pressure, so he simply repeated: ‘Let it go? The Guardian of the Tunnel that slew those two thieves there, and nearly destroyed us too, and you let it go?’

  ‘That’s just the point. It wasn’t the Guardian, and it didn’t kill the thieves. It was just a crow.’

  ‘. . . A crow.’

  ‘Yes. It must have got trapped down here when the portal was last opened. It didn’t almost destroy us . . . we did that to ourselves.’

  Still clutching his head, Bolldhe lurched to his feet and stared around in disbelief. The Peladane stood in front of him, and Bolldhe could now see that look of utter failure and bitter self-recrimination on his face that he had worn that day in the Rainflats. He decided not to press the point.

  Behind Nibulus stood Finwald; both appeared relatively unharmed, though the priest was bleeding from a light cut across the forehead. Appa, however, was on the ground clasping his head and shaking violently. Blood seeped between the fingers pressing a wad of cloth against his temple, and his grey face looked even more haggard than usual. He was muttering to himself in a worryingly slurred manner, and did not appear to be at all aware of what was going on around him. Their chief healer, it seemed, would not be doing much healing for quite some time.

  Paulus too was upon the floor, sporting a deep gash across his thigh that was bleeding badly. Bolldhe watched him as with trembling hands the mercenary prepared a brand with which to cauterize his wound. Not one of the company made any attempt to aid him, but the hard line of his mouth suggested to Bolldhe that he had already savagely refused their help.

  Wodeman also was counted amongst the wounded. His arm was bandaged tightly and hung limply at his side. He must have been in some pain, but none showed in his ruddy face.

  A crow! A bloody crow! What hope do we stand when – if – we reach the Maw? Bolldhe shook his head in dumbfounded silence.

  Of all of them, only Kuthy was completely unhurt. Bolldhe watched him closely as the adventurer walked about offering token assistance. He was obviously impatient to get on, and was masking this only thinly. Bolldhe seethed inside. Kuthy had known there was something down here; this was probably the reason he had persuaded them to come this way. Yet they were the ones who had overreacted, and brought about their own injuries.

  Bolldhe glared at the man with a contempt that bordered on loathing. He wished passionately to have any excuse to kick him in the ribs. He felt as if he had been used, manipulated, and if there was one thing Bolldhe hated more than anything else in the world, it was being manipulated. More than lies, treachery and double-dealing, being used was the very worst.

  Just then a sizzling sound could be heard, followed immediately by an anguished grunting. The sickening smell of burning skin rose into the air. Bolldhe whipped around, only to see Paulus clutching his leg as if trying to squeeze the very life out of it. The brand lay by his side, sputtering out its last breaths on the floor. He had finally succeeded in cauterizing the wound. Shaking with spasmodic agony, the Nahovian looked as though he might be suffering another of his fits. Even now there was blood on his lips. As Bolldhe stared, Paulus slowly rocked back and forth in his suffering, uttering not a sound. His cowled head turned up to stare glassy-eyed at the wall and, as he did, so Bolldhe caught the expression on his face. It was one of torment and pride and hate, all at the same time. And there was also a hint of pleading . . .

  Bolldhe did him the courtesy of averting his gaze, and turned it instead on Kuthy. I just hope that before we leave this tunnel, he swore to himself, you taste the suffering that you so casually bring on others.

  Wearily he turned away and prepared to set off again.

  Guardedly, but with a sense of grim determination, the company trod the next dark highway that their quest had brought them to. As Kuthy had promised, this new section of the tunnel did indeed run fairly level, but it was also narrower and lower and, now that the portal was closed, the chill wind from ahead had nowhere to escape. The result was that the tunnel now seemed utterly claustrophobic, it forced everyone (bar Appa) to stoop, yet was even colder than before.

  The air was as dank as air could be without actually becoming water, and after just a few minutes of breathing it their lungs felt saturated, icy and rattling. And it was freezing. It felt as if they were a troop of dead souls marching along the endless underworld corridor of eternal night.

  The going was anything but easy. The floor surface was slick and uneven, and frequently the explorers would curse sharply as their feet trod on jags of icy, diamond-hard rock that jutted up painfully into the soles of their boots, or land ankle-deep in pools of icy water. To make matters worse, their progress was hampered further by the sorry condition of Paulus and Appa. Neither could manage more than a painfully protracted stagger or limp.

  Paulus’s maimed leg was causing him agony, and it was only his hate that drove him on. He would reach Eotunlandt no matter what – the tho
ught of plunging his weapon in the soft bodies of those lovely little huldres was so delicious he salivated at the thought.

  But for Appa, this journey was no less than a waking nightmare. Though, with Finwald’s support, he was somehow managing to keep up with the others, his strength, already sapped by the previous punishing weeks of journeying, was almost at its uttermost end. He was no longer fully aware of where he was or what he was doing. Neither food nor rest could render him the sustenance and healing he so badly needed, and everyone knew that it was only a matter of time before he simply collapsed and never got up again. The hardships of Melhus were irrelevant now; even with his innate old man’s stubbornness, he would be lucky to reach the other side of Eotunlandt.

  Wodeman, whose thoughts were usually hidden behind that bramble-hedge of inscrutability, was for once manifesting clear signs of unease. Bolldhe sensed this early on, and immediately felt better himself.

  ‘What’s the matter, Wodeman?’ he chided. ‘Arm giving you gyp?’

  The shaman glanced down at his bandaged arm, but shook his head. ‘It hurts, if that’s what you mean, but that is not my problem. My arm is nothing compared with this . . .’ He regarded the torch-lit tunnel walls around him – mere inches from his face on either side – with dread. ‘This closeness, this . . . unnaturalness – have you ever felt anything so terrible before, Bolldhe? It feels like I’m buried alive. Cut off from the universal whole!’

  Bolldhe bit his lip and inwardly smirked. After that dream the sorcerer had given him the previous night, he was not going to feel any sympathy for the old sod.

  ‘Really?’ he answered. ‘I quite like it – it’s exciting. And I’d have thought this is a great opportunity for you too, a man like yourself.’

  ‘Eh? How’s that, then?’

  ‘Always you’re saying to me how close to the earth you are. Well, you don’t get much closer than this – you’re practically buried in it.’

  Wodeman looked away. ‘Get lost, Bolldhe,’ he replied caustically. ‘You’re not funny.’

  Ha! Bolldhe thought. ‘Cut off from the universal whole’? I’ll have to remember that one.