The Wanderer's Tale (70 page)

Appa leapt back and choked on the sour pear he had been eating. Paulus immediately swept out his blade. But the others merely looked up in mild surprise, and regarded Wodeman in silence. He remained as he had landed, crouching on his haunches, fingers splayed on the ground, and a wild look in his eyes. He said nothing, just stared at them intensely, breathing hard. From the vegetation still clinging to his garments, and the powerful smell of his ‘musk’, they could tell he had been running hard.

Not for a moment taking his eyes off them, he reached inside his clothes and whipped out the leg of some animal. His white teeth sank through mottled fur and crunched through sinew and bone. He tore off a large chunk of raw, red flesh and chewed on it enthusiastically.

Appa’s hand went unconsciously to his amulet, then down to his crow’s-beak staff, and he edged closer to the Peladane. Even so he stared in awe at the shaman, who, in contrast to the company’s almost apathetic contentment, burned fiercely with life in every particle of his being.

‘Having fun?’ Nibulus enquired, and tossed a waterskin over to their returned friend. Wodeman caught it in his free hand and gratefully emptied it down his throat.

‘So tell us, Wode,’ Nibulus went on, ‘what’ve you been up to these last two days? We thought we’d offended you somehow – maybe our coarse dining etiquette or something.’

Irony was only vaguely recognized by Wodeman, but these words of the southerner caused him to hesitate a second. Mulling them over in his head for a moment, he seemed to remember who he was, or had been, for the past eight weeks. The wildness ebbed away from him, and he relaxed a little.

‘Ach, what have I been doing, you ask. What haven’t I been doing! Having fun, yes – but oh what fun! I’ve been
living
, boy,
living
like I’ve never done before: I’ve never felt so
alive
. . .’

The others looked at him with a mixture of curiosity, caution, even discomfort, but also with a touch of amusement. He came over and sat down amongst them, and took another bite of meat.

‘What a place, though, eh?’ he continued fervently. ‘Have you ever known the like of it? Could we ever even have guessed such a place existed? I tell you, in these past two days I’ve done more living than in all the long years of my life put together! I’ve sprinted fleet with the beasts of the field, the wind on my face and grass whipping about my ankles. For hours did I run, yet there was no tiring. I’ve sung to the moon shining bright ’twixt the soughing branches of benighted woodlands. Through the icy waters of lakes have I swum like an arrow; spiralled joyously through shoals of brilliantly coloured fish that move this way and that as one; stroked the backs of huge silver carp that sang to me in haunting melodies. I’ve explored deep grottoes of quartz filled with unearthly inhabitants – whether plant or animal I know not – that I would never have believed possible outside a dream. I’ve sung with the birds, and talked with the beasts of the forest that came to my call—’

‘Oh yes, and what about?’ Kuthy cut in, nodding towards the haunch of meat in Wodeman’s hand. ‘Dinner arrangements?’

‘—And drunk deep of the salty red blood of this land!’ the sorcerer rejoined lustily. ‘Oh yes, for that is Life! And I’ll continue to drink of it till I’m sated! From earth that grinds in the crystalline deeps to air that spirals in vortices above the clouds, this land fills me up till I’m as giddy as a sot. I swear, never will I leave this place!’

At this last remark, there was a buzz of surprise – but little concern. The company’s wanderings here had been for the most part an exploration of this land, their quest all but forgotten; and it was only in a vague way that they were still heading north. Appa, however, visibly brightened.

Then Kuthy spoke up: ‘Yes,’ he said, gazing over the red-gold country about him, whilst propped up on one elbow, ‘I may even join you. Since I was last here, I’ve often wondered what it would be like, or even if it would be possible, to colonize Eotunlandt.’

‘What!’ exclaimed Wodeman, alarmed for the first time since entering this realm, and horrified even more than he had been at the house of Nym-Cadog. ‘You cannot be serious – not even you!’

‘Why not?’ Kuthy smirked. ‘Just picture it: a huge country hitherto untouched by people, teeming with innumerable unheard-of species of beast and bird, abounding with delicious, exotic, unheard-of fruits, vegetables untasted by any outsider, timber in countless new varieties. A land where the sun always shines. Everything here just waiting to be plundered. The natural resources are unequalled anywhere upon the face of Lindormyn. I’d be the first to delve my hands into its plenty. By the gods, I wouldn’t know what to do with it all.

‘Just think, here grow unique commodities of the highest quality. Imagine what I could charge for them! And all in such endless supply – especially the hardwoods. Well, I say
endless
, but I bet I could give it a damn good try, heh-heh.

‘Then there’s the countless thousands of square miles of fertile land just itching to be farmed – pastures of the richest grass stretching as far as the eye can see . . . wild game in abundance, with no shyness of Man nor any natural defence against him. They’d simply walk into my traps . . . stare inquisitively at the spear-tip about to be embedded in their skulls. Ha, what a picture! And who can guess at the potential for mining? In a land as bountiful on the surface, what must lie beneath? Rich minerals, precious metals, jewels even – and probably much more besides. I’d have mines belching out smoke across this land twenty-four hours a day.

‘What couldn’t we do, men such as ourselves? Practical men, hard-nosed, worldly-wise bastards like us, with a good head for business and the guts to go out and grab it; men unburdened by any thoughts of sanctity or respect.’ These last words he almost spat out, like a poison from his system, and stared around at his speechless audience.

‘Of course, I’d have to start small-time at first. That’s the problem in these parts – such huge distances. But with a little initial capital,’ he gloated, patting the pouch of emeralds at his side, ‘I’m sure I could get a small workforce together – plenty of slaves to be had from the Dhracus this time of year. A hundred or so? Yes, just grab as much as I could initially, then see what interest the merchants show on my return.

‘And then . . . then, once I’d got a whole damn army of slaves, I’d build a trade route, road and all, right through Fron-Wudu, up to the very entrance of the tunnel itself. Start a trading post there, build it up to a whole town, with me as Big Boss holding all the rights . . . jack up prices because folk’d have nowhere else to go. Expand the tunnel, cut out space for a few underground staging posts along it at intervals . . . hostelries, even a few whorehouses, especially if we can round up a few dozen huldre-girls. Who knows what unique pleasures
they
could give a man, eh, Paulus?’

A brief sound of whimpering could be heard from the mercenary’s lips.

‘Yes, “The Tunnel of Love”, I’d call it – nice and dark, just right for the ambience. And then – and then I’d simply ravish this land! Ravish it like the virgin it is, a virgin on its knees. I’d log the forests bare, farm the land till it bled, charge top prices in rent, then just sit back and do nothing, and I’d still make more money in a year than the High Warlord of Pendonium makes in a lifetime!

‘I’d be the richest man that ever lived!’

He turned to the company to check their reactions, and was not disappointed. As one, they just sat there gaping at him in horror.

Quietly, he laughed. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘the dwellers of Eotunlandt would never allow that to happen, unfortunately.’

Then Paulus drew closer. Of all of them, he was the only one to show no aversion to these ideas. ‘Huldres are no problem,’ he assured Kuthy, ‘I could even start an arena here . . .’

‘Really?’ Kuthy replied. ‘Sounds good to me (you sicko).’ Then he added softly to himself. ‘I wasn’t referring to the huldres . . .’

He turned away from them, fished in one of his pouches and drew out a small whetstone.

Only Wodeman’s keen hearing had picked up these last cryptic words, but he was still too upset by the soldier of fortune’s mercenary homily to ponder them. ‘I feel so sorry for your sort, Tivor,’ he began. ‘To dwell in these lands and yet remain so unmoved by it all. You’re no different from the Peladanes!’

‘Whoa, hold on there!’ Nibulus protested, not sure whether to be offended or amused by this unexpected comment.

‘Hold on, nothing!’ the Torca ranted. ‘This is no different to what it was like in my forefathers’ time. When your ancestors first came to our lands, they acted exactly like this rawgr who sits amongst us now. They forced my people to exploit their own land to ruination; they exacted a terrible tribute from every man, woman and child; and if one died, his quota was passed on to his kin. And they corrupted us to our very soul. Hired us as runners, scouts, guards – even miners . . . Why do you think I hold your sort in such low esteem?’

‘What’s so bad about mining?’ Nibulus asked, not sure why he was even having this argument, but joining in anyway. ‘Metal is the hallmark of civilization; it’s what raises us above the level of the Animal.’

‘Och, it makes my gorge rise just to hear you say that, Master Wintus,’ Wodeman replied in genuine pain. ‘The only iron my forefathers ever wore were the manacles your household bound them with, and the only gold was the pennies they placed on their dead eyes.’

The wildfire in him was dimmed now, and he had returned somewhat to his old self. Kuthy had that sort of effect on people.

‘You walk in the light of the sun, you people,’ Wodeman persevered, ‘but its warmth never reaches your heart. You are like the stone of the crypt.’

‘Maybe so,’ Kuthy responded. ‘I’ve trod the paths of this world and others, and if there’s one thing I’ve learnt it’s that after a while, once you’ve seen one nice tree, you’ve seen them all. And after that you see only firewood.’

At this, all the others looked hard and meaningfully at Kuthy. The Tree was one of the most sacred symbols of Wodeman’s belief, and to refer to it as ‘firewood’ (or, even worse, ‘nice’) was akin to likening the Sword of Pel-Adan to a bread-knife, or the Torch of Cuna to a matchstick.

Wodeman, however, had by now decided that mere words were beneath him. They were the stuff of ‘civilization’, and he wanted nothing more to do with them.

‘Marauders,’ he muttered to himself, and turned his back on them all.

Perhaps it was Wodeman’s mention of marauders, spell-woven into reality by this land of fey magic and dreams, but just as the sun was setting the company did spy some people that evening.

It was not easy to see clearly, for the light had now fled the lower grasslands, robbing them of their many shades of green. Now, save for the peach-gold blush of the snowy peaks that ringed the horizon against the deep azure of the sky, the whole of Eotunlandt had turned grey. Not a flat, lifeless city-grey, but an infinite variety of profoundly rich, living greys: the shadow-hues of grass-green, earth-brown, sunset-red, sky-blue, and all between. Thousands of tiny points of light were opening, and bobbed and wove among the trees and grasses all around. Far from signalling an end to the day, the dusk heralded the overture of a million tiny awakenings. The faerie-night was just beginning, and a thin silver mist crept across the ground.

And there, away to the North, could be discerned a line of figures. It was as impossible to gauge their distance as it was their race; in this twilight world of shifting grey shadows and roving pinpricks of light, dimensions were unsure, and the Old Magic ever tricked the eye. Maybe it was only illusion, but if so, it was illusion that was shared by the whole company. Moving purposefully from south-east to north-west, a line of about a dozen figures, maybe more, could be seen. They were just black shades against the grey-green of the misty grasslands, and no details could be made out. But some appeared to be carrying poles over their shoulders, and many had large, misshapen heads. Possibly horned. The occasional red spark, whether fire or reflected sunlight, glinted from them.

Paulus was on his feet in an instant. ‘Huldres?’ he inquired of the keen-sighted Wodeman, stroking his blade and sniffing the air as if there were a bad smell upon it. The sorcerer held up a hand to silence them all, and focused all his senses in the direction of the diminishing figures.

From the North a wind was blowing. All heard its steady approach. First the rustle of leaves and groan of ancient boughs, then the eerie whistling of the high grass just below them. And finally the sudden patter of rain against their faces. It was not a strong wind, but it bore a brief, flurried scatter of distant noises: the sudden call of birds; voices, harsh and mean; stony laughter; the ring of metal.

Then the wind passed, and with it the sounds. The darkness deepened, and the vision was lost.

‘Any ideas?’ Appa asked nervously as the others sat back down.

‘Yes,’ their leader replied cheerfully. ‘Let’s have dinner!’

To this the others readily agreed, and set to building up a large fire, the marching newcomers now forgotten. Appa stared at their activity, then glanced back worriedly to the darkling northlands. A sudden hiss of hatred at his side caused him to spin around in fright; he looked up to see the gaunt shadow of the Nahovian towering over him. The pale light of his one eye glimmered coldly from his cowled face as he spoke low to the priest.

‘Huldres,’ Paulus confirmed, and gave Appa a meaningful look before he departed. ‘Be on your guard tonight.’

Appa shook his head in bewilderment. Complete fruitcake, he thought to himself, and unstrapped his pack.

For the first time since he had entered Eotunlandt, the beginnings of a cloud began to form on Appa’s horizon. It could have been the group of strangers earlier that was causing this, but more likely it was the disturbingly neglectful attitude of his companions just now. In any case, it went some way to reminding the old man of his purpose – their purpose. He would kick their arses into gear again on the morrow. And with this timely reminder came the memory of who he was, or rather, what he was.