The Wanderer's Tale

by David Bilsborough

  But then Kuthy had reminded him that there was only one portal out of Eotunlandt, and if the thieves were headed north, as it was plain they were, they would have to pass through it, too. Thus Finwald had turned his despair into a single-minded determination to reach the portal before they did, redoubling his efforts to drive the company on as fast as possible and so cut them off. It was the only point at which he was sure of encountering them again, and thus the only chance of regaining the sword.

  It was a race to the gate.

  Now finally, after a week of cursing fretfulness, they were surely within a day’s march from the portal, and it was here at last that they had spotted their first sign of the thieves. Finwald’s heart had leapt. He was within an inch of regaining Flametongue, and he was not going to take any risks. But neither was he about to let this godsent fortune slip through his fingers.

  ‘We’ve no choice,’ he insisted. ‘We must catch them. It’s now, or it’s never.’

  ‘Never suits me fine . . .’ Bolldhe mumbled, but no one was listening to him any more, even if they did silently agree.

  They all instead turned to the Peladane. It was clear how some of them felt: why risk so much for just a sword? Not even its last owner, Bolldhe, was particularly inclined to recover it. In fact he seemed glad to be rid of it.

  ‘Actually,’ Nibulus said, ‘I don’t believe those Tyvenborgers are that dangerous. I saw the look in their eyes and the way they held themselves. They’re not real fighters.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Paulus said. ‘Thieves are maggots to be squashed beneath the Boot of Righteousness. I saw them too, and they are cowards.’

  Paulus had been itching for a fight all week. Skulking here in the woods was not to his liking. He may have been many things, but nobody could ever accuse the Nahovian of being a coward. Furthermore, he had a score to settle; he hated thieves with a loathing that bordered on the unholy in its intensity. But it was not just the Tyvenborgers that had infuriated him so; he still had not forgiven Kuthy for leading him on with tales of huldres. Paulus Flatulus wanted blood, and he was not too particular whose blood it was.

  Bolldhe sighed. He could see where this was heading. But his opinion counted for nothing here. It was up to the other three to try to talk the Peladane out of this madness.

  ‘What do we actually know of Tyvenborg, then?’ enquired Wodeman. ‘How dangerous can they be?’

  ‘It’s the single largest collection of thieving scum on the face of Lindormyn,’ Nibulus replied. ‘Bandits, picaroons, freebooters, plunderers, cracksmen and cutpurses . . . Men, Haugers, Grells. Venna, Rhelma-Find, Pendonium, wherever there are people, of any race, if they’re low-life arse-pickings, chances are they’ll end up in the Thieves’ Mountain. They’re strong, but that strength comes from numbers, not courage or skill-at-arms.’

  ‘Though they can be handy with a blade, at a pinch,’ Paulus pointed out.

  ‘And they often have magic,’ Kuthy added. ‘The very laxity – no, carelessness – they show towards new members is their great advantage. No entrance exam for them; they’ll take anybody. No cult is barred, nor race nor gender. They are without rules; who knows what magic they may have?’

  ‘But I still say they are no match for true fighters,’ Nibulus insisted. ‘If we can just surprise them . . .’

  Bolldhe regarded the leader as he drew a gauntleted finger down the edge of his Greatsword. The old sod’s starting to believe in his own myth, he thought. He’s never talked like this before.

  He delicately probed the scabbed blisters on his face. ‘There is one magic I know for sure they have,’ he said softly, unsure whether they were allowing him to speak yet, ‘and I really don’t wish to feel its touch again.’

  Nibulus gave Bolldhe’s burns a perfunctory inspection. Though he was still unwilling to allow this faithless coward to remain with them once they had left Eotunlandt, his anger at Bolldhe had subsided somewhat these seven days past. Nibulus had seen cowardice many times before; he had had to do unpleasant things about it, cut it out. But he had never had to cut out one-sixth of his troop; a Toloch, after all, consisted of fifty thousand men – and eight thousand, four hundred men was not something he would discard lightly.

  ‘Looks almost healed to me,’ he commented. ‘I’d be more wary of the weapon itself than its magic.’

  ‘He only tapped me with it,’ Bolldhe reminded him. ‘And there are more magical and poisonous weapons in their arsenal.’

  ‘Poison, yes,’ Nibulus agreed. ‘I could smell the fossegrim-stench of that voulge from twenty paces.’

  ‘I concur,’ Appa muttered darkly. ‘I was considerably closer to it.’

  ‘And River Haugers were ever devious, alchemical disease-ridden little bastards,’ Paulus put in, recalling Flekki’s chakrams.

  ‘But what magic did we see?’ Nibulus continued. ‘Bolldhe’s boiled face with its crumbly scabs, granted. But as for the rest of the supposedly magic stuff that bloke was going on about, well, we only have his word for it . . . and that being the word of a thief, mind you.’

  ‘But what about that pipe-thing he was pointing at you?’ Wodeman asked, ‘Looking at it, I couldn’t see any way it could work, but he looked fairly sure of it.’

  ‘Don’t know, don’t care,’ the Peladane replied blithely.

  ‘Pipe-thing?’ Kuthy repeated. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘You didn’t see it?’ asked Nibulus. ‘Oh no, of course, silly me, I was forgetting; you were too far away by then.’ He gave the Tivor a look. ‘No, it’s something I’ve heard of before, years ago up near Trondaran way, but I can’t think what the word is. Sounds a little like “mascot”, or “mess kit” . . .’

  Kuthy thought for a minute. ‘Mascot? Musket? No, not one of them! Not a blunderbuss! Ah, I hate blunderbi! Ach, Nibulus, I’m afraid you’re right about Trondaran; they make them up in the mountains there – something to do with dragonfire, I think, but I’ve never managed to get hold of one to see how it works. In any case, that’s not something you’d want going off in your face, believe me.’ He looked genuinely worried. ‘And that half-Grell’s Dancing Sword, those are things I have come across myself, and I never want to experience another demonstration of their powers.’

  ‘And there is the small matter of the Dhracus,’ Bolldhe pointed out. ‘She seemed to read your mind well enough.’

  ‘Getting very chatty, aren’t we?’ Nibulus scowled at Bolldhe without even looking at him. ‘Anyway, she didn’t read my mind, only guessed it. That’s no skill. Anyone with a pair of eyes could tell that I’m not the kind of man to surrender.’

  ‘Be that as it may,’ Appa remarked with a shudder, ‘she is a Dhracus, and they have powers . . .’

  ‘A Dhracus from Godtha, though,’ Kuthy observed. ‘I’ve had enough dealings with that people to know it’s their cousins in Ghouhlem that possess the psionic art. Those from Godtha are mere apprentices. We needn’t worry too much about her. No, it’s that big bugger – Oswiu something-or-other. He’s the one that concerns me. He’s the one with the power.’

  ‘Brother Oswiu Garoticca,’ Appa reminded him. ‘Yes, I agree, there was a potency I felt in that one that I’ve never before known in a man. He is a true rawgr of Olchor. I doubt not for one second that he has much dark enchantment to hand.’ He then clutched his amulet and started rapping his ring against it fretfully.

  Nibulus snorted, and drew himself up to his full height. ‘He’s a thief! Any power he has can, and should, be purged by the sword. Just like any other spineless Olchorian.’

  ‘I don’t think he is an Olchorian,’ Bolldhe essayed. ‘Not exactly. Did anyone see the runes on his mantle? Olchor, Erce and Cuna. What d’you make of that?’

  ‘The order of Cardinal Saloth, wasn’t it?’ Finwald asked. ‘Yes, I’d forgotten about that. Anyone got any ideas? Kuthy?’

  But for once, Kuthy had no suggestions. To everyone’s surprise it was Wodeman who now spoke up to elucidate them, Wodeman the uneducated coppice-priest, he w
ho hardly ever left his woods. ‘Cardinal Saloth Alchwych,’ he explained with unaccustomed venom, and then spat. ‘To all my people, his name is like the dung they use to spike their hair.’

  ‘So who is he then,’ asked Finwald, ‘if not a follower of Olchor?’

  Wodeman deigned to avert his eyes from his companions. ‘A Torca,’ he confessed.

  A very pregnant pause followed. Then Appa said, ‘You’re joking!’

  ‘A Torca,’ Wodeman repeated. ‘Yes, one of my own. But one who long ago left the path of Erce. Down dark forest paths known to none but himself has he gone; paths haunted by forest wraiths that howl out gibberish madness, paths spun with the tangling webs of Falsehood, drawn ever on by the sweet stench of nightsoil, into lightless, trackless Chaos that broods at the heart of the Great Wood.’

  Kuthy smirked at the shaman’s articulations. ‘You mean he was a sorcerer who got a bit lost in the woods one day?’

  ‘That is the absolute truth of it, Tivor,’ the shaman replied tersely. ‘Got lost in the woods for sure. And there he founders to this day.’

  ‘But why the runes of Olchor and Cuna?’ Appa asked.

  ‘The three runes do not stand side by side as equals,’ Wodeman explained, ‘rather Erce stands at the centre of all, with the other two flanking it. The Scales of Balance pivot on the head of Erce. The other two sit in the pans on either side. Thus Erce ever strives to balance the opposing forces of Good and Evil, that would tear the world apart if they could.’

  Finwald scoffed in derision and sat down upon the grass, his sword-cane across his lap. Appa joined him, sighing heavily and plucking the dead brown holly leaves off the hem of his woollen robe. It was clear they were in for a long lecture. Bolldhe pointedly decided to join them.

  ‘I hardly think that acts of kindness to help each other along life’s difficult path are going to tear the world apart,’ Appa chided. ‘But do go on.’

  ‘I completely agree, Appa,’ Wodeman went on, ‘and isn’t that exactly what I’ve been doing all my life? Don’t tell me you know nothing of your brothers skulking off to the woods at night to petition my help when their own resources have dried up. I don’t have the skill of counting, as you learned men have, but even if I had I doubt I’d be able to tally the total number of Lightbearers and Peladanes who’ve come to me over the years. Oh, it’s not much I do, I know; divining for wells, purifying water, petitioning the earth-spirits at sowing time, thanking them at harvest . . . locating game for a hungry family; and there are many ills I can heal that are beyond the wit of your herbalists. No great Acts of Good, I know, but I dare say they help where help is most needed.’

  (‘Don’t worry, Finwald,’ Appa assured the impatient priest in a whispered aside, ‘I’m sure the Tyvenborgers will still be there for a while yet.’)

  ‘And the Scales of Balance?’ Nibulus enquired, guessing where all this was leading to.

  ‘The Scales of Balance remain steady,’ Wodeman confirmed. ‘My help is small, mundane and pragmatic. It goes unnoticed by kings and high priests and, more importantly, by gods. I believe my works help the ordinary man far more than any damn crusade would—’

  ‘Without our swords you would have no life, no land,’ Nibulus growled. ‘Who d’you think holds back the forces of Evil? You can’t do that with twigs and herbs!’

  ‘Without your swords we wouldn’t have an enemy in the first place!’ Wodeman cried. ‘You think Olchor cares about farmers, do you? I hear the Evil One’s servants take little interest in those lands free of both your cults.’ This last was directed at the mage-priests also.

  ‘Limp, peace-loving woman!’ Nibulus spat.

  ‘Dung-headed lemming!’ Wodeman rejoined.

  ‘Oh, bollocks!’

  ‘Arseholes!’

  ‘Ah, just like my days in the Quiravian debating society,’ Kuthy observed, ‘and if any of you lot care to shout any louder, I’m sure we’ll soon be hearing what the Tyvenborgers have to say on the subject too.’

  Both parties quieted into a sullen silence. Then Finwald, wondering whether he should prolong this debate any longer than was absolutely necessary, rose to his feet. ‘Evil must always be fought,’ he stated. ‘That’s what life is: the perpetual struggle between Good and Evil.’

  Wodeman settled back down on his haunches, and drew out his clay pipe. ‘We are all of us men,’ he said, calmer now. ‘We live in the world between the Yttrium Chapel and Hell. We are the pivot. I do acts of good that help ordinary people, not Acts of Good that disturb the Balance. For every supposedly holy Act of Good, the Scales tip in favour of Evil, and vice versa.’

  ‘It all makes what we’re doing here pretty bloody pointless, then, doesn’t it?’ Bolldhe commented. This time he felt entitled to speak up, seeing as all this was so obviously for his own elucidation.

  But Wodeman was not to be put off. ‘What who is trying to do, Bolldhe? We know what Finwald wants, but as for the rest of us, I’m sure you’ll agree we’re still in the dark. Do you know what we’re doing?’

  ‘Haven’t got a clue,’ replied Bolldhe, then added, ‘as usual.’

  ‘Quite. We, the Torca, believe that the Balance must be kept. Helping each other out, as we all do, adds no weight to the scalepan of Good. But every time a temple of Olchor is razed, or some other such act of holiness is committed, you can be sure that the exact opposite will happen to balance it out. We ourselves have all committed acts of revenge now and then, so we should understand. This is nothing too difficult: night and day, winter and summer, death and birth; it’s all part of the ineffable Cycle of the Cosmos—’

  A loud yawn interrupted the sorcerer’s speech as Kuthy stretched himself out on the dewy grass and stared up at the morning sun slanting through the leaves.

  ‘And the Cardinal?’ Nibulus reminded the Torca. ‘Where does he fit into all this?’

  ‘Just as the Torca refuse to take sides in the endless squabble between Good and Evil, so too do most people – only not in the way we believe in,’ Wodeman explained.

  ‘Ah, indeed,’ Finwald concurred, eager to get this over with as soon as possible, ‘the neutrality inherent in such a belief system is readily accepted by many people. They develop it to suit themselves, looking after number one and ignoring everyone else.’

  ‘Exactly what you’d expect from the thievish element in their part of the world,’ Wodeman resumed, jerking a thumb in the direction of the rocky knoll with its line of smoke. ‘And then Saloth Alchwych came along, a Torca who “got lost in the woods”. He was a Torca like any, but he expanded the ideology of his followers in Hrefna forest. They were always a thievish, self-centred lot, so close to Tyvenborg, so it wasn’t hard to gain a following. Their perverted idea is to bring Good into the world by deliberately causing Evil. For every gold zlat they steal, somebody profits – when they spend it. For every child they slay, new life comes into the world. And when they assassinate a Good, Holy Man, then surely it is the best, easiest way to ensure that an Evil, Unholy Man dies.

  ‘It’s difficult to gainsay the logic in their thinking, but we all know the truth. Just try telling it to our friend Oswiu out there . . .’

  ‘True enough,’ Kuthy agreed. ‘You’d have to be a fast Torca to make him see sense.’

  ‘So what do we do?’ asked Bolldhe. ‘Kill him? Or would that tip the Scales against us?’

  ‘We avoid them,’ stated Wodeman, ‘though I confess that I’d dearly like to feed him to the earth. “From death springs new life,” we say, and so honour the fungus that grows on the decaying wood of a dead tree, or the blood of the animals we kill. But they sleep with the bodies of their victims, make puddings from their blood and feast upon the maggots that crawl from their putrescent flesh. Cardinal Saloth’s murderous brotherhood have taken all that we hold sacred, and turned it on its head.’

  ‘Yes, right, this is all very fascinating,’ Finwald commented, ‘but do you think we could just go now and actually do something about our necrophilic friends out there?
Or were you planning on simply talking them to death from here?’

  Wodeman’s face bristled with sudden anger. ‘How dare you mock everything that I stand for! How dare you! I don’t remember you ever deriding my magic back in Nordwas, on your secret little midnight trips into the woods. You seemed quite happy to accept the help of a servant of Erce back then.’

  What’s this? Bolldhe thought, his ears pricking up. The others, too, paused, looking from Wodeman to Finwald.

  ‘Wodeman . . .’ the Lightbearer murmured.

  ‘Wodeman nothing, you hypocrite. I’ve covered for you long enough. If this is the way you’re going to treat me, then when we return to Nordwas you can just go and locate your own earth crystals and powders and whatnot. You and your weird little experiments!’

  Of all of them, only Appa seemed unsurprised. ‘Is this true, Finwald? You haven’t been getting up to your old tricks again, have you?’

  ‘Of course he has,’ Wodeman replied, filling Finwald’s silence. ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t already know?’

  ‘What’re you all talking about?’ Nibulus cut in, feeling rather left out in all this.

  Appa sighed, the sadness and disappointment evident in his voice. ‘You can take the alchemist out of Qaladmir,’ he said, almost to himself, ‘but the alchemy still remains in the heart. Isn’t that right, Nipah?’

  ‘Nipah?’ Nibulus demanded. ‘Finwald, is there something you haven’t told us?’

  ‘There’s a lot I haven’t told you, as I’m sure is the case of every living soul on the face of Lindormyn,’ Finwald retorted. Then, somewhat sullenly: ‘Nipah was my old name – Nipah Glemp. It’s a name I left – along with everything else in my old life – back in Qaladmir when I quit that seamy place.’

  ‘So Finwald’s not your real name?’